


I wouldn't say that you were ruthless or right (I couldn't see from so far)

by Siera_Writes



Series: Of living things, my son, some are made friends with fire [1]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: (It's not bad I tagged it just in case), Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Bittersweet, Body Horror, Diviner!Ross, Fae manipulation, Fluff, Food, Introspection, M/M, Magic, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Tea, Urban Magic Yogs, and a little bit of Smith obsessing, but not the au you're thinking of, demon!trott, existentialism worthy of season one true detective, so many hot beverages, think of it as an au of an au, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trott is stood with his back to Smith, head tipped back as he stretches, balanced on the balls of his feet. Shirtless. In quite low-waisted jeans. He is also barefoot.</p><p>Given the current situation, Smith should just have been ogling his friend's moderately sculpted build - not overly muscled, trim, the expected result of moderate exercise, diet, and some years of martial arts.</p><p>However, that is not what has stolen Smith's attention, shut down his brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Was I chasing after rainbows

**Author's Note:**

> I used lyrics from [this song](http://youtu.be/zbTJIZRYRz8) for the title, and for the chapter titles.
> 
> In my opinion, that song suits the whole urban magic thing quite well. I want to write in that au, but I love writing in this variation of it, so for the mean time I'll stick with this one.
> 
> So, without further ado, enjoy.

Smith had always found there to be something just a little bit... off... about Chris Trott. There was no doubt in his mind that Trott was a good friend, a best friend, in fact. He was reliable, helpful, supportive, protective - and God only knows how Smith's qualifications would've turned out had Trott not been around. Any time they were sat next to each other, not even touching, the taller man could feel a physical warmth, and it didn't emanate from the other man, it just cocooned him, making him feel safe, secure. He was also good looking, in a somewhat unconventional sense, with his omnivorous eyes, understated confidence, and lithe figure.

And Smith was nothing if not unconventional. Sometimes he would stare at Trott, and Trott's deep-shadow eyes would bore into him when they met his, and the auburn haired man's heart would race. Sometimes it would be the other way round, and Smith would catch Trott looking at him darkly, almost predatorily, and Smith could swear he was about to go into cardiac arrest.

Not that this was a problem.

No, the problem was this.

Trott was perfect.

Not in the clichéd way. No, it was more the holy-shit-hang-on-a-minute perfect, the he's-seemingly-intentionally-designed-to-be-exactly-right-for-me perfect, the is-this-a-punishment-from-God-to-me? perfect.

Trott, for all intents and purposes was exactly the person that Smith would want to date. But the more Smith thought about it, the more problems that sprung up. If he tried to ask Trott out, and Smith hadn't read him right, what would happen then? He could ruin one of his longest, most meaningful friendships.

When he'd asked Ross what he should do one day, he'd merely claimed he was surprised they hadn't fucked yet. Nonchalantly of course. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. The bastard.

Anyway, Smith knew he needed to sum up the courage to discuss the issue with Trott. 

Yeah...

A couple of months after deciding this, he still hadn't done it. 

Months of second guessing every action and reaction, of replaying their interactions, and it's been exhausting. It's an issue, and a serious one at that. Smith wants the catharsis of finally knowing for sure.

And tonight would be the night. 

He's sat in the mildly spacious living room, watching some crappy reality show that's on, the schadenfreude positively oozing through the screen. Smith exhales laboriously, stretching, and tells Ross, who is sat in the room with him, that he needs to talk to Trott. Ross says something under his breath, probably praising some deity that Smith has finally decided to do this, but the taller man just walks out of the room in lieu of responding, grumbling slightly under his breath. Trott's in his room at the moment; he'd arrived back from wherever he was, about half an hour ago (alone) and had said he was going to be doing some editing, so it should be safe for Smith to go in and not walk in on anything...

He determinedly attempts to shut down the flustering mental images his brain helpfully provides. He doesn't succeed fully, but Smith congratulates himself for the valiant attempt anyway.

The auburn haired man heads up the stairs, grateful that they don't creak. Planning all the different approaches to the conversation he could take seems a bit too much effort, and he decides to wing it, knowing that if what he says sounds too rehearsed Trott would probably mock it some time later anyway, then Ross would find out, and he'd never hear the end of it. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he follows the short landing left, heading straight past his room, then Ross's, and tiptoes to the furthest doorway, where the door is ajar, trying to give as little notice as possible to the other man, as mild paranoia for the upcoming conversation fills his mind. 

A heavy, frustrated sigh emanates through the crack between the door and its frame, a sure sign that Trott must be editing. Smith knows the brunet's tired sigh, could recognise it anywhere. 

That's creepy. Smith shakes himself from the internal analysis he was about to begin.

To reduce the likelihood of him just turning around and heading back down the stairs, Smith decides he should just go for it, and he closes his hand round the handle, pushing the door in a measured motion, anxiety and excitement a heady blend.

A mellow warmth is lit inside Smith at the idea of being a competent and respectable adult, for making the decision to do this, to face his fear. 

However, the sight that meets him seems to punch him straight in the gut, and his chin has to have fallen to the floor for how much his jaw just dropped.

\---

Trott is not, in fact, currently editing.

Trott is stood with his back to Smith, head tipped back as he stretches, balanced on the balls of his feet. Shirtless. In quite low-waisted jeans. He is also barefoot.

Given the current situation, Smith should just have been ogling his friend's moderately sculpted build - not overly muscled, trim, the expected result of moderate exercise, diet, and some years of martial arts.

However, that is not what has stolen Smith's attention, shut down his brain.

It is, in fact, the pair of ruby wings emerging from his scapulars, elegantly extended in a position mirroring his arms as he stretches. They're webbed, bat-like, the skin stretched over the deceptively fragile-seeming structures translucent. They cast lurid red stains over the creamy carpet where illumination from the main light streams through like stained glass. There are little spines at the end of each long finger-like digit, and fully outstretched, each wing must be the same length as Smith is tall. Small scarlet scales clad the bones of the wings, and somehow it all blurs into the flesh of Trott's shoulders once again, except down his spine.

There, scales are unevenly clumped and dotted, sporadic, patchy, and like stepping stones, leading to the base of his spine, where, oh dear god, a tail, an actual tail, extends, whip-like, and ending in a flat triangular barb, like you'd see on medieval renditions of dragons. It's thin, and tapers, and the barb actually appears to be dangerous, just as the spikes on the wings seem to be.

Trott lowers the wings when he finishes his stretch, mantling them neatly, symmetrically, to either side of him, and they resemble some absurdly ornate cloak or garb of some forgotten royalty. He yawns then, back still to the taller man, and brings one of his elegant-handed arms up to muffle his yawn, flexing his still-human toes in the carpet threads where he stands.

"Um..." Smith doesn't realise he's spoken until Trott's snapped around to face him, wings flared in panic. He also looks quite angry. His hands are curled into fists, he looks ready to pounce, and his tail, just the tip, is flicking back and forth like that of an agitated cat.

"Oh." Smith looks behind him, fumbling for the door. "I'll uh. I'll just. Leave. Now?" He smiles without confidence, backing out. The confusion congeals his thought processes to molasses. 

"Oh Smith, why couldn't you just knock." The genuine frustration - tone almost whining - in Trott's voice almost catches him, practically stops him in his tracks, but as soon as the brunet takes a step forwards, Smith bolts away, confused terror fuelling him forwards. He is stopped almost immediately by arms around his waist, holding him back with unexpected strength. 

Smith flails, and in any other circumstances, he would be internally melting at close contact with a shirtless Trott, but right now, his fight or flight response has him struggling to escape with desperate motions. He manages to rally his thoughts, to gather his wits enough to generate the impulse to scream to Ross for help, unwise as it may have been.

One comfortably warm hand snakes up like a viper to clamp across his mouth - nail nicking the corner of his mouth accidentally - before the breath passes his lips, and Smith could curse his instincts right now, as unconsciousness overtakes him, a last-ditch effort from his brain to protect his sanity as his knowledge of the world comes seriously into question.

\---

Smith wakes surprisingly well-rested, passing off the experience as a dream, filled with doubt though he is. He's lay in his own bed, with the stuff that he was already wearing the evening previous in preparation for sleep, and he's not dead. 

Trott is no demon. 

And it's not possible for him to be one, of course. He briefly scans the room with narrowed eyes for any sign of the other man. His room is just as he left it. Huffing, Smith curls with effort up to seated, body propped by his arms behind his back and hands splayed over the body-rumpled sheets he's sat on. He narrows his eyes as he continues suspiciously flicking his vision around the room, and he brings a fist to his mouth to stifle a yawn. 

The main issue here is creeping uncertainty, and he's questioning his own mind, his very grip on reality. This needs to be sorted as soon as possible. He's worried. How should he act around Trott; should he let on? But it hadn't happened, so it would sound crazy for him to say something like that...

He should act natural, and watch Trott's actions for any sign of the previous evening's monster being real ... It is, after all, exactly what he's been doing for the last half a year, anyway, observing Chris Trott. 

A seed of self loathing rears in the recesses of his mind, hastily quashed. His heart aches a little.

Smith peels himself from the bed, kicking the treacherous duvet from around his legs and cursing it churlishly, pouting in irritation. 

He proceeds, stumbling with sleep, to the bathroom, to make himself mildly presentable for going down the stairs to breakfast, where no doubt both other men already are. He glares at his reflection in the small wall mounted mirror, running his hands through particularly wild curls in order to reduce the level of chaos which is to be found there. 

He glances down as he forces the resisting tap to let loose a steady stream of water, the chrome pitted black with slight corrosion. He frowns, eyebrows furrowing, making a mental note to remind Trott about the-

Hmm... Maybe not, at least, not until Smith's quite sure that the other man is human. 

God, this whole situation is ridiculous!

The auburn haired man levels his vision back to his reversed counterpart in the silvered pane before him, and then he notices it.

He leans closer, squinting in supreme focus. There, beside the corner of his mouth. It's faint, barely noticeable from any greater distance, but it's there, and he didn't catch himself shaving yesterday.

A frisson of triumph and terror sparks through his body, electric and intoxicating.

Just beside his mouth, a pale pink crescent, the rough dimensions just smaller than a human fingernail, glowers.


	2. To look through the eyes of a stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to laeiphy, who bookmarked this fic requesting I do nothing else than write and publish this fix asap. X3
> 
> Wish I could, in all honesty, but writer's block and my upcoming GCSEs would have something to say for that! I'll try to release as often as possible, though. :)

Smith clatters down the stairs, the victory of his discovery dulling both his tact and instincts, instead allowing pride to rear its ugly head, unimpeded. He heads straight to the partially closed doorway of the kitchen, whistling with glee under his breath, cockiness visible in every step. Ross's voice can be heard, muttering expletives, and presumably he's almost burned himself cooking, judging from the harsh sizzling that accompanies the muted outburst.

Smith decides that with Ross there, Trott won't try doing anything to him, won't be able to do anything. 

His brain helpfully avoids recalling the wiry strength and stunning speed of the brunet that had been demonstrated the evening previous. 

The grease-laden scent of bacon hits Smith's consciousness in a delightful rush of desire just as he flings the door out wide, entry triumphant. A smirk is set on his face, and he determinedly avoids looking at Trott, already seated at the table, in lieu of heading over to the darkest haired man to mock his culinary ability. 

Standing somewhat close to Ross's right, given the small space they have to work with, he reaches up into one of the pine-hued laminate clad cupboards to grab a mug for coffee - surely not the best decision given the level of delirium that seems to have beset him - and brings it down with a brash clunk to the cheap worktop. He can feel Trott's scrutiny like lasers on his neck, and also the weak heat of a winter sun through the blinds-barred window to the right, over the sink.

"Kettle boiled, mate?" This is aimed solely at Ross, and the auburn haired man doesn't bother to stop the just-woken slurring of his words.

The other man just gestures absently to the device, where Smith can see from the gauge that there's still water. There's moisture still curling from the spout. Oops. Should've looked closer. "Thanks mate." Smith scratches his check, and there's a faint scraping sound where his nails catch stubble. Now he's stalling for time, anticipation of the upcoming interaction loosening his stomach with slight nausea. He glances briefly down to the pan that Ross is residing over. "Is there enough for me?" 

"Fuckin' hell Smith, how much bacon do you think I eat? Look in the pan, of course there is." 

"Sorry, I have no idea where my brain is right now." He chuckles to himself, teeth bared slightly in a crude  
resemblant of a smile, apologetic, trying to increase the levity of spirit that he feels. The effort crashes and burns.

He lifts the kettle with a slightly shaking hand, pouring in the still-scalding liquid. A generous heap of instant coffee is spooned in, no milk, and he swirls it with measured movements of a salt-dulled teaspoon. His head is lowered as he gathers his thoughts and wracks his brain.

How to deal with Trott? There's nothing for it, he decides, and as soundlessly as possible, he sucks in a gulp of air, then breathes it out again, trying to normalise the tempo of his heart. 

\---

Smith summons the most shit-eating smirk that he can, the one where his eyes glimmer with just a hint of cruelty, eyes creased at the corners, roguish. (The one Ross had once, one time after a few too many drinks, assured him is swoon-worthy, before he stuttered something and blushed as he turned away.)

He turns to Trott, carrying the coffee cup in one hand while he marches towards the table. 

Trott's eyes are a baleful, murky brown, boring straight into Smith's. He's fully dressed, not a rumple in his checked shirt, posture alert but comfortable, fringe carefully brushed to the side casting shadow over his face. His right forearm rests fully on the table cloth beside a cup of tea, left elbow situated next to his right hand, left hand loosely holding his breakfast, which is mildly charred. He slowly chews the corner of a single neatly cut triangle of toast, barely buttered, and does not break eye contact the entire time, seemingly merely observing Smith's expressions, and it's hypnotic.

Smith feels like flinching away at the intensity, stomach flipping with excitement due to the potent scrutiny. 

He sits down, wordless, planting himself directly in front of the other man. He feels almost unconsciously drawn towards the other man, can't resist looking into his shadow-darkened tourmaline brown eyes. His chest seizes, ribs fighting to draw in air. A spark of panic flashes through him.

Trott just continues gazing into him inexorably, past his eyes and into his soul.

To Smith's equal disappointment and expectation, the breathtaking garnet wings are nowhere to be seen. However, a faint shimmering appears around Trott, subtle at first, strange and ethereal, but the longer Smith goes without oxygen, the clearer it seems to get, like a Polaroid photo. A faint rose-quartz hue develops. 

Taking another minuscule bite, the brunet finally drops his eyes to the plate below him, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth sharp. Smith's control over the entirety of his body returns suddenly, and he forces himself to resume breathing, lightheaded and weightless, while adrenaline renders him shaky and exhausted. 

The more his breaths stabilise, the more the sparking at the corners of his view subsides, and Smith wonders at the fact that his respiration seemed to briefly have ceased of its own accord, as though he was mesmerised by the smaller man. The fog that had descended over his brain clears, and with it comes the horrific realisation.

A power play.

That's all that was. Trott almost killed him - could have killed him - just by looking at him, controlling him with just his stare, his thoughts? Piece of shit. Outrage floods his veins, setting his nerves burning red. 

Smith's about to snarl, anger etched into every line of his body, to lash out with acid words at the brunet, hands clamped to his legs with bone-white knuckles, and tendons standing from his skin. But he's stopped as Trott resumes looking at him, this time sardonically, warning Smith from doing anything stupid, as Ross obliviously places down a plate of bacon on their small square table.

"You alright Smith? You look a bit pale..." Smith starts at Ross's words, turns his head to the left to look at the other man, and they begin a conversation, benign. The fury withdraws to the centre of his chest, sourly burning him from within, with caustic indignation and engulfing embarrassment.

He ignores Trott as the shorter man stands, fabric of his clothes whispering, and moves to leave his plate beside the sink. He necks the last few sips of his drink in one, neck working, and profile flattered by the harsh bright light, before he places the mug carefully beside his plate. 

"I'm going out to get some more tea, we're running out. Anything else I should get while I'm out?" His voice is level, natural, unaffected, sincere. It makes Smith's blood heat.

Ross indicates to the negative, that there's nothing else they urgently require, and so Trott leaves the room, and shortly after that Smith hears the front door open and close.

Smith sneers bitterly.

Ross just looks concerned. And... Worried? There's a hint of satisfaction there too, of hope. Smith's not sure what to think.

"Smith..." He sighs, biting his lip - unintentionally drawing Smith's sight away from his eyes - and obviously trying to figure out quite what to say. "Look, are you and Trott okay? I take it your conversation last night didn't go too well..." Understatement. "And. Um. If you ever want to talk, you know, I'm here..." There is a hopefulness there that Smith doesn't want to acknowledge - he couldn't deal with ruining another friendship. It seems that Ross genuinely has no idea what's going on... 

He always did have a good poker face, though... 

Smith nods in assent, raising to a stand wearily, moving away his cutlery, mug of half-drunk and burnt-bitter coffee, alongside his barely attempted breakfast, to the sink. Hopefully Ross won't take offence at that.

Standing practically where Trott did only five minutes prior, and glaring stony-faced into the cold winter sun outside, Smith finishes the chill brown liquid on one hasty swallow.


	3. Can't tell the real from reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this chapter, and that none of you find extended dialogue tedious. :/
> 
> Had to get it out of the way at some point.

Smith hates to admit that he'd actually forgotten quite what his day job entails. 

Sitting for a generous amount of time very close to Trott. Ross too, but mostly Trott. 

Smith is currently hunched in his room, mood made miserable by the disastrous recording session they just had. God, was it awful. His hands are clutched together, as though in prayer, though to what god, he doesn't know. His curtains are closed, depriving him of light, and reducing his room to varying smudges of grey, navy and black. What the hell is he to do? If demons - or whatever Trott is - are real, then who's to say what else usually derided as mythology is?

Even in the darkness of his current hermitage, Smith can't escape the vibrant beauty of those wings, finds it intoxicating. It seems strange to think that Trott gave him the warning just yesterday.

Smith begins to rethink his whole life, clawing at and dragging out dust coated and cobwebbed memories from the recesses of his mind, hunting voraciously for some clue, anything, that would have hinted at or been a precursor to this new and horrific discovery.

But there's nothing - Trott's always seemed normal, understated, average. 

Another possibility hits him, a little, desperate suggestion. What if Ross knows? What if Ross knew about this the whole time? Surely something would have happened at university.

Jesus Christ, this whole situation was one big fuck up. Smith scoffs to the empty air around him. Somewhere, something or someone, was having a great deal of fun at his expense.

He gropes in the pitch dark space to his right for the phone he left resting on the small oak effect bedside table, recoiling with a hiss when the full brightness of the screen scorches his night-adjusted retinas. He cracks his left eye open minimally while he alters the settings, then relaxes from his tensed position.

There's nothing for it, Smith decides, but for him to do a little bit of research. He loads the browser on his phone.

\---

Smith's search turns out to have been mostly for naught. He couldn't stick it for ten minutes, let alone an hour. Lots of myths just seem like trashy excuses for killings, rapes, and many other crimes. 

Being Monday, most people would be up doing things. Smith knows he usually would be, but keeping up the charade of normality during that video has exhausted him. He just wants to talk to Ross about it, but isn't quite sure how to broach the subject, how crazy it'll sound to the other man. What a nightmare.

Smith creeps out of his room, blinking rapidly as he gets used to daylight again, then hunts down Ross. Given the day, Ross is probably editing the day's video, but... knowing Ross, he probably needs a coffee right now. Smith double checks on his watch. Yep. 

He sneaks down the stairs with as much stealth as his six-foot-five body can muster and reaches the bottom relatively quickly, squeaking of stairs minimised barely. He pads the rest of the way down the hallway to the kitchen, and enters the room in as understated a manner as possible, waiting to ensure that the brunet is not anywhere close.

Ross looks at him quizzically from his station near the kettle, cup clasped between both palms like a child would hold a warm mug in winter, just below his lips. The clear crisp weather of yesterday has left, and has been replaced by washed out grey horizons, light slightly muted. Ross's features are caught nicely, light emphasising the cut of his jaw, the line of his neck, the curves of his shoulders. Smith shakes himself, and heads to the table to pull out a chair from the dining table, pulling it round it face Ross with a flourish, then pressing the door carefully closed.

He steps back to the chair again carefully, seating himself, and observing the other man.

Ross stares back, single eyebrow quirked. Smith sighs, fidgets his hands, rearranges his legs. "Ross, how'd you 'n' Trott meet again, I don't think he ever properly explained..." There's a pause, the dark haired man's face turning blank, and Smith's sure he doesn't imagine the slight paleness that develops. 

The man laughs nervously. "Why?" 

"Mmm, dunno mate, just wondering some stuff." The taller man shrugs noncommittally, trying to seem curious, and not prying. 

This seems to convince the other man, who removes his right hand from his mug to gesture as he explains the well-worn story. Smith watches, enthralled, attempting to divine the truth from the man's words. When no more information seems to be forthcoming, Smith decides to just go for it. 

"Did anything weird ever happen? With Trott, I mean?" Smith winces at his poor phrasing, and Ross looks scandalised, half choking on a generous sip of coffee. "Didn't mean like that!"

He gives the other man plenty of time to get back to normal, to stop coughing, to take another sip.

"Nah mate." He's really using that poker face now.

"You sure?" He stares directly into the other man's eyes, attempting to hijack Trott's weird method of intimidation, just in the more mortal way. Ross frowns. Smith keeps staring. A couple more seconds, and Ross looks away, perturbed. He swigs the rest of his drink. The auburn haired man takes this opportunity to stand up, to slowly walk towards the other man, not looking away.

He steps right into Ross's space, resting his weight on hands planted to either side of the dark haired man, who leans against the counter. A pink tinge accents Ross's cheeks delightfully. Smith smiles that smile, the leather and whiskey smile, and stands his full height, teeth a pearly row as he grins down at a shallow angle to look directly at the other man. Their faces are very close now, and he can see each of the unique colour striae that build the ice hue of Ross's eyes. He speaks lowly, softly. "Are you sure Ross...?"

The other man gulps, then licks his lips nervously, seeming to collapse in on himself in order to make no contact with Smith. There's a little bit of fear, a little bit of thrill, and Smith would be lying if he said he weren't affected by the proximity with the other man. Ross's lips shape the pivotal word, the affirmation that he's been waiting for. 

"...No..." 

Smith recedes back with an initial reluctance that surprises him, like the sea at low tide, carrying away his warmth, and his smile, checking himself and folding his arms in a show of determination.

"Tell me." His voice is stony, eyes flint, and his posture brooks no argument.

Ross raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, letting loose a lengthy sigh, then collecting himself from where he's slumped against the worktop. He sternly looks the auburn haired man in the eye, wordlessly berating him for the manipulation he just used - Smith does feel bad about that - and points his thumb at the kettle behind him without looking.

"Fine, but we're going to need coffee..." 

Smith just nods.

\---

Smith's mouth hangs open. It's frankly a lot to take in. 

Ross is laughing, slightly ridiculously. "I know, right!" He gestures wildly outwards with his hands.

Smith drops his head, blinking, then leans forward over his coffee to look Ross in the eye, holding a finger up to cease his somewhat delirious babbling. "Hang on, hang on." He waits for the other man to stop. He sits, practically vibrating, waiting for Smith's next question. "So you're telling me that you - Ross Hornby - summoned Trott - a demon - to help you with your film degree. And here's the kicker: accidentally?" 

Ross just nods. "Mmmhmm."

"Right."

"Yeah."

The auburn haired man breathes in deeply, out again, eyes wide. Woah. "How the fuck did you do it accidentally?"

A monumental shrug from Ross.

"Okay, so how did I not notice when he disappeared?"

"You were at university a year before he was, with me." That was true. "But Trott told me things, when it happened. See, when he finally actually trusted me - and believe me, it took some time - he explained it to me. Fae, ley lines, they're all there if you look for them. Usually, you need to be pretty close to death to see their true forms when they don't want you to. Glamour or something, it's called. But you caught Trott unawares, so you saw him properly. He didn't want you to, was worried of what you'd think of him, I'm sure..."

Smith raises both eyebrows at that, exasperated expression on his face. A thought occurs to him. The shimmering around Trott after he...

Hmm.

Haltingly, Smith explains what happened in the kitchen the day previous, surprised at the shorter man's lack of reaction. When he explains the shimmering at the corners of his vision, Ross grimaces slightly, commenting that Trott might have taken it a little too far. Smith scoffs at that. 

"No, no Smith, you don't quite get what I mean by that. Remember what I said about being near death allowing you to see past the glamour... Well, what if I said the shimmering was Trott's wings..." 

Smith's eyes widen. Oh.

Ross gets to a stand, reaches out for the two empty mugs, looking the other man in the eye for confirmation that he's finished with his cup. Smith nods for him to do so, then stands himself, buoyed slightly by understanding the situation better. He runs his hands down his front in an effort to smooth out his clothes.

"Even if I understand what's going on now, I can't forgive him for manipulating me."

"Oh, I know."

Smith glances through the window, seeing the dusky night botching the sky with swatches of pink to red, navy to black.

"I'm gonna go out for a bit, okay?" 

"Mmm. Just be careful." Smith huffs a small laugh at that, stepping out of the kitchen and proceeding down the hallway to grab his jacket, shrugging it on.

He heads out of the front door, following the grimy road to the centre of the city's murky heart, to where corruption and crime hold sway over a little more than just mortal constructs, to where the wild things are.


	4. In every city such a desolate dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I just can't get the idea of Kim being a banshee or some other similar creature out of my head. 
> 
> Also, I love Kim. Sorry if the characterisation is mainly skewed to negative, this isn't Kim IRL, this is a character.

Towers hulk to either side as Smith walks. The road on his right is slicked shiny by rain, black, and blends with the shadow of the immense buildings and cloud-dusky sky. Vehicles fume and kick up spray which mingles with the heavy rain, the moist atmosphere sticking in the auburn haired man's lungs, cold and wretched. The city exiles any form of silence, filling the air with raucous lives and humming machinery. Illumination is few and far between; the occasional street lamp flickers weakly - ruined by vandalism or apathy - and sickly sodium-yellow dyes the pavements and walls. Not many are out, but the city lives.

Smith sees it all now, the corruption, the degradation and dilapidation, and recognises now that the city is the perfect harbour for those more than human. Those to whom human lives are meaningless, chess pieces to play with that are ultimately expendable. Fae.

The further Smith walks, the more he's sure he sees it. At first he thought that it was reflections splintering off the waterlogged surfaces, but the closer he gets to the dark heart of the leviathan, the stronger they become. They're ethereal, ephemeral, dancing across the road surfaces like auroras, fragmented, barely tangible. 

Ley lines.

He sees them now, and they sing to him. They pulse with the city, follow the flow of humans and others, of energy, wavering and weak in its extremities, but undeniable and strong where he is. It's breathtaking, electric, white light weaving amongst people and objects with an eldrich awareness. Smith tries trailing his hand through the strong line he's following, and immediately pulls away, hair standing on end. The sensation is indescribable and nauseating and mind bending; everything that he has ever considered, loved, hated, wanted, needed, prayed for, destroyed - all there but made enticing, soothing clawed hands pulling him further, promising oblivion and freedom and Smith can't. He can't let himself go. Not yet.

Heart skipping, Smith backs away like a cornered animal, hands clasped to elbows, and eyes clamped shut. He's breathing hard, chest working and leaping to suck in oxygen, to calm his heart. 

He thinks over what the city just showed him, the truths of the past with their false veneers of hope, the facts of his present encroached by lies and sparkling, the secrets of the future - what he wants and what will be, inevitably twisted and with a patina of temptation. 

He sees his friends, who they are, what they have been, who they will be. But the city knows his wants before he does, lays them out in the fore of his brain, uncomfortably bare and open like the slit carcass of an innocent creature, slimy, shiny, but promising more. His friends as they could have been (together), how good they could be right now (together), and how brilliant they will all be in the future (together). All so different, and all so right. Fire and Water and Earth. Smith recoils, images painful and shameful to witness. His heart wrenches in longing but his brain flinches in propriety.

He needs to ground himself. He presses his palms flat against the rain-greened pitted brick walling he's plastered against. Slowly, as he becomes more sure of himself, calmer, he opens his eyes. 

Oh shit. 

He sees it all now. The city is laid bare before him. He know's who's fae, who's mortal. Instinctual, he can just see it, can just tell. Laughter echoes loosely around him, not quite real, not quite in his head, and Smith knows why, immediately. The city has chosen him as its new plaything.

He stumbles forwards, like he's been burnt, stomach churning and nerves firing. He's shivering but he's not cold and he's never felt so aware. He's shaking. But the city's painted so fucking pretty by magic, oversaturated and coruscating, and he wants to see it all. Something pulls at his conscious, and his sternum, nonexistent hooks luring him forth, further in to the depths.

A confidence that he never before possessed embeds itself into his step, allows him safe passage through newly treacherous crowds. Fae look at him and recoil, as he walks amongst them, like it hurts to look at him. He just smirks, playing it as cool as he can, fear and exhilaration a heady elixir in his blood. The closer he gets to his destination, the more his bones resonate. 

When he's upon it, he feels like screaming. His hair stands on end, his heart is pounding. He lifts an unsteady hand to drag his damp hair back from his face. His leather jacket is beaded with rain. It's a club, one he's surprised that he's never truly considered entering. His eyes just skipped past it. But now, with his new cognisance, he can see it for what it really is. Purple light leaks out, striking and dangerous. He steps inside, and is met by a wall of sound, of happiness and mirth. He's surprised to see other people - normal humans - but realises that their eyes are bland, empty. They probably won't remember the evening, if in fact, they are alive tomorrow.

He heads to the bar, and some throw themselves at him, some shy away, and some stonewall him completely. He orders a drink, whiskey, a favourite, and sits down, attempting to blend in, whilst he ponders what has happened, the realisation of his desires.

The pounding music continues, drowning out voices into an indistinct cacophony, soothing. Motion around him blurs as the alcohol sets in, a light buzz in his veins. Lights still flash and pulse, the skin of his hands cast in varying hues as he watches blankly, paying less attention to them than to the inner turmoil now so helpfully muted into something more manageable.

He doesn't notice the woman in red until she's next to him.

She trails a hand up his face, snapping him back to reality at the uninvited touch. He glares, about to snarl, but her eyes freeze his limbs and squeeze his heart. One is pitch dark, the other a deep wine purple. The indigo scrawls over one half of her face and proceeds vine-like down her body, over the arm and leg of that same side. She's clad in a figure-hugging red dress with golden accents. Black hair tumbles down her petite frame, and hatred is painted crimson across her lips. She tilts her head, observing him like a specimen in a jar, and Smith can do nothing, the force she secretes almost a physical, quantifiable effect.

Her voice is quiet, melodious and seems to emanate from everywhere, and rings in his head. "What are you?" She sneers cruelly as he struggles to summon the will to answer her.

"Uh, I'm." He draws a difficult breath and swallows, "I'm human."

She laughs, cruel and sharp. "Of course you are. Stupid mortal." She uses it like a curse. She sighs in a show of exaggerated patience. "I meant, what is special about you? Mage? Seer? What are you, what allows you to see past a glamour as strong as this place's?" 

Smith shakes his head hesitantly, shrugs, not wanting to upset the woman. He senses danger and power rolling off her.

"You should be dead."

Smith recoils.

"Crossing the threshold should've killed you..." She seems troubled now, pout a vivid mark on her dual-toned skin. She smiles again, an unfriendly slash across her face, and she reaches out, ruby nails claw-like as they trace his cheekbone teasingly, eliciting a shiver. "Maybe I should rectify that, I mean, you could be quite troublesome."

Smith grabs the arm of the hand raking his cheek, anger and determination lending a strength of will he's never had. Her eyes widen in surprise. Smith stands, enjoying using his full height as he continues holding her arm. She snarls something, some language that resonates sonorous and strange, causing purple haze to envelop the pair, but he just laughs, brash and bold, before walking out and away of the club. She emits a desperate wail of anger and frustration, but Smith's already out the door before he can be stopped. He's already crossed the threshold of the city again, and its glassy-slick influence closes around him again in a bubble.

She can't hurt him now.

The city is holding him close, for now.

He walks back home.


	5. They lay back laughing at naivety's star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tardiness of this chapter. I thought there'd be waits, but not this long.
> 
> To cut a long story short, I got caught up watching Daredevil, on top of my revision.
> 
> Oops.

Smith stalks back to the apartment, hair rain-slicked darker and pushed back from his forehead, frowning against the incessant rain and the rivulets that crawl down his skin in shiny trails. It's frigid - he's zipped his jacket right up to his neck, stuffed his hands as far as they can go into the pockets. Every step is executed stiffly in his quick march to get back.

He's avoiding thinking about what happened. It seems to dull the other layer to the city he can see. Feigned ignorance. 

The wind slips wraith-like around him, unruly strands of hair flicking across his cheek, and he shudders involuntarily, cruelly reminded of the purple skinned woman. And what she said. He bows his head against the memories and steps faster.

The hour is so late, it might be early for some. Clouds suffocate the lofty hemisphere above him, and the wordless flaming sentinels beyond them cannot continue their never ending watch. The dark still lurks, strong as ever, as street lamps struggle through the night. The pavement is dyed black with rain, slippy and cracked.

The elements cause his nose to run, makes him sniff and hastily bring a wrist to cuff his nose lightly twice in an attempt to halt it.

"Course I get a fucking cold, on top of everything else. Bloody hell." It's hissed under his breath, vehement and bitter, to nobody in particular.

Maybe the city.

Once he's a couple of blocks away, he begins a light jog, spirits lifting slightly in hope, prospect of warmth and sleep a comforting elixir. His heavier and more frequent footfalls kick up spray from the myriad puddles clustering over the paved ground, producing sharp 'shlick' sounds with every advancement.

He bounds up the concrete stairs to the doorway, pulls his hands from his pockets and huffs heavily onto them, repeatedly, in an effort to induce greater mobility to his numb digits. He digs out the keys impatiently, and fumbles with shaking and unresponsive hands to sort the correct key from the other couple that are on the ring.

He grunts quietly in success, triumphantly plunging the key into the lock, and wrenching it open. He slips inside and closes it, reclining back and baring his neck as the base of his skull leans against it, eyes closed in satisfaction, heat enveloping. He stays there, for a little while, until his breathing levels out, and until he actually feels like moving. The darkness here is kind, comfortable.

Entering the house seems to have removed the pressure of the city, he can feel it, his temples less constricted. It felt like he was getting a stress headache. He massages his head with one hand unconsciously. 

The loss of the city is one he would never mourn.

He yawns, unzips his coat and shrugs it off arduously. He toes his boots off one at a time, hand splayed over the wall for balance. He's so damn tired. But he needs some tea, something to settle his stomach and warm him, inside to out.

He shambles forward wearily, but he only moves forward one step before that other sense kicks in, and he feels it, a void created behind him, quickly filled by another presence. It feels like smoke and embers in his enhanced minds eye, but Smith is only mortal, his brain tired and trying to catch up. 

The sense registers properly a second too late.

\---

His skin burns where the other figure touches him, body pressed tight as they restrain him. Their arms are wound vine-like around his waist and chest, wiry-strong. A blade is pressed against his neck, and he feels their chest shift slightly as they breathe, unaffected by the slight exertion. In the dark, Smith sees nothing, hesitant to move at the risk of his throat being slit. He hears and feels them breathe in deeper, about to speak. 

"What have you done to him." The rage burns flatly in the deep voice, unquestioning and stern. The blade presses tighter. Smith scrabbles for a satisfactory answer, and finds none.

"I have no idea what you're talking about Trott!" The desperation Smith feels is tangible.

A mirthless chuckle rumbles through the smaller man's body, Smith feels it, and his hair at the back of his neck is shifted slightly by the huffs of air. "Sure." A sigh. "That would be why he's suddenly more than human, right?" The arms constrict further and crush him closer to the other man, making it difficult to get enough air. Smith starts gulping, vision swimming, tears pricking attire corners of his eyes and limbs growing weaker, leaden. "Whoever, whatever, you are, get out of my friend. Now." Smith wishes he could comply, anything to stop that awful, dead tone of voice from ringing in his ears and reverberating around his skull.

Dear god, it hurts like hell.

There's a noise, like a great deal of air displaced - like the wind - and suddenly, everything's on fire, red and visceral and oh-so bright, cocooning him with insurmountable, unbearable heat. Smith feels like he's dying. 

He swears he hears Ross's voice.

\---

Smith chokes back to reality, gulping for his life as his brain resumes its panic. It takes a while to quell the sensation, as he realises he's sat slumped in the living room, on a sofa, and safe. His eyes still seem to be overlaid with white after-burn of flames. He tries blinking it away. It just fades on its own.

He feels like he's going crazy.

What the hell just happened?

There's a clunk from the kitchen, then some scraping. Smith panics until his brain computes it's the sound of mugs being mover around. There's some clinking, then Ross enters the room, three mugs of tea precariously clutched in his hands as he painstakingly carries them. He meets Smith's eyes with sympathy, a sign that that stuff just happened? A mug, scalding, is passed to him. Smith swiftly gathers his wits as he rearranges the handle in order to hold it safely. 

He's had more than enough burning for one day, real or not.

The darkest haired man then looks to the corner of the room, where the paltry light of the single lamp near the door barely reaches, then gestures as the remaining mug. The auburn hairs man flinches in realisation, and slowly turns his head to the other side. He hadn't realised there was anyone else in the room. His heart leaps in dread at the anticipation of what his new vision might show him.

Trott, in all his fae glory, is stood stone-like, in the corner. His arms are crossed, and his eyes , glittering slightly, seem black in the darkness that seems to cling and coalesce around his frame. His wings are mantled beside him, brilliant scarlet hue still obvious, and his tail hangs to the ground, the part that would be touching the floor curled up and swiping back and forth in agitation, the only tell of impatience in his otherwise perfectly unaffected charade. He's in loose pyjama pants and a faded tee, somehow. 

Smith quickly breaks from the glare that meets him, looking back to Ross for some help, some guidance, in how to proceed. None comes, only an apologetic look. After nothing happens for another few minutes, Smith doesn't think he can stand the uncomfortable silence for much longer.

He clutches his hands around the grainy fabric of the sofa, head tilted down and eyes unfocused, looking at nothing, really. He clears his throat, scrabbling for something to say. The silence grows thicker, heavier, and the light cast by the small lamp seems to diminish. Ross sips at his tea, only source of noise in the room.

Suddenly, the weight of the room seems to shift, as Trott steps forward, anger palpable and easily read in his jolting steps. His hands are clutched, shoulders tensed. And Smith curls into himself. "Hang on now, I-" Smith gets out, before being shushed by Ross.

The dark haired man's voice is soft, careful. "Look, he's not angry at you. After I read you, found out you haven't been possessed, you're not a changeling, we were both confused. But Trott was never angry at you, he thought something, someone, had got to you..." He takes a deep breath. "After all, you're not exactly... you... anymore." Ross's voice wavers at that. "At least, not entirely."

Smith frowns at that. The hell? He's still him, he can feel he's all still him. Just with a little extra, he supposes.

Trott's by his side in a blink, body materialised in a whorl of smoke and embers. He kneels on the sofa, knees pressed to Smith's hip, and burning hot against him. A hesitant hand reaches out, and lightly trails the pad of a finger across the auburn haired man's cheek, turning his head to face him. The brunet's other hand is clasped white-knuckled on the back of the sofa. His skin is left heated in the wake of the gentle touch.

The dark eyes meet his imploringly, anguish there but being valiantly hidden. The wings are vaulted behind him, and the light reflected from them is jewelled cherry. They seem to shift even in stillness, fire coursing throughout them without illumination. Smith feels a pressure around his ankle, realises the tail is coiled around like a snake.

Trott's voice is quiet, a murmur really, as he drops his palm to the man's chest, squarely over his heart. "What happened to you, and who did this?" The brunet bites his lip, and looks down heavy lidded in resignation. Smith hears Ross shifting, moving to kneel on the tallest man's other side, beside his legs, on the floor. He reaches out to clasp one of Smith's hands in both of his. "Please tell us, Smith. It'll be so much easier for us to help you."

How can he phrase this?

He clears his throat again, flicking his gaze between the two men. He breathes in and out deeply as he imagines how to explain it. "I saw it, when I was walking outside..." He merely breathes the words, staring at the wall, past the men. "Ley lines, like you said. I was. Uh, close to the centre of the city, and they were so beautiful, so bright. I just reached out, to see if I could touch it, what it would feel like." Like everything. So, so much, he can hardly stand it. "And after that, I could see it all, everything... I can see you now, Trott." His eyes bore into the demon's, who shifts self-consciously.

Silence falls again, but this time it is comfortable, warm, homely. They've always been friends but this is something. Something different. Something else entirely.

Smith knows he can't bear to loose this, not ever, whatever it is. He feels complete, knows they both do too.

His chest leaps and his heart swells as he realises. Closes his eyes. 

Trott's voice snaps him from his reverie, dark and velvet. "It was the city?" He doesn't sound incredulous, just wanting to confirm that he's understood what the other man says. Smith feels the sleep curling between his ears, making his brain heavy and soft. But it ticks over the conversation, and happens upon something curious, before he drifts properly. "Ross?"

The man merely hums, still beside his legs.

"What do you mean, you read me?"


	6. And I wipe away the water from my face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who wrote way too much dialogue again? Me. 
> 
> Sorry for that, it's not my forte, I know. However, I do have pretentious levels of description covered in the previous chapters, so there's some respite from that. Phew!
> 
> Hopefully I can actually write convincing emotions. If you don't mind, let me know, either way, whether I can or if it's just cringe-worthy.
> 
> There's my self-loathing done for today, I do hope.

Lethargy still laces Smith's brain as he tries to keep awake, eyes burning tired. He keeps having to blink. The darkest haired man's reaction is odd, though, and tempts his conscious to keep fighting for wakefulness. 

Ross visibly balks at Smith's barely-aware mumble, flicking flighty eyes to the brunet before looking down to the hand tangled with Smith's, frowning and seemingly irked that he'd unconsciously let that fragment of information slip. He gestures to Trott and Smith to move across the sofa slightly, to create room for him to be seated beside them. Smith feels Trott's arms slip round him, gently pull him further towards the shorter man. Ross nimbly steps up onto the sofa, situating himself cross-legged and close to the auburn haired man, a hand on Smith's shoulder.

The dark haired man swallows once, hard. Looks down again, this time at his right hand clenched into a fist. He looks to the two other men from under dark brows, first Trott, then Smith. Sighs.

"You can see Trott, so..." He trails off, eyes skimming through empty space behind them as he summons words from the ether to translate the images in his brain. It takes a while, the pause drawing out taught and strained. Finally, with a shudder, he begins. "Trott knows this one, uh, he ah... Helped. I guess." A bitter smile. Trott frowns minutely in concern, obviously having heard it at least once.

The dark haired man shifts under his close scrutiny, clears his throat. He's backlit quite nicely by the measly illumination from the small lamp, cheekbones gently shadowed, bright eyes muted. His eyes go glassy as he begins to regale the tale again, voice hushed. "As a child, I liked going to the seaside," a vague gesture with the hand previously balled in his lap, "You know, like most children. Loved it," a soft smile curls his lips, "Couldn't wait for the next time we'd go." He removes the left hand from Smith's shoulder, and steeples it with his right, below his chin, shuffling slightly in his seat.

Smith wants to reassure him, coo some sweet nothings in a shock display of his extreme exhaustion. He keeps his eyes locked though, as the other man continues.

"We'd walk - uh, my mum, 'n' dad. Along the pavement. It was right at the edge of the sea. Black metal railings. I used to stand on them, dad'd be behind me, hold me there and make sure I didn't fall... Was nice."

He flicks a resigned smile at Smith. "In my young age, I was stupid. Fuckin' hate myself, if you must know. Hate the thoughtlessness and egocentrism of being a child, Jesus Christ." The last bit surprises Smith for the vehemence with which Ross speaks. He merely nods.

"So, one day, I went there, without my parents, 'cause I was self righteous enough to believe that my parents refused to let me go for the fun of not letting me. Of course, the gale force winds would have no impact on their decision. Decided that because they hadn't let me go, and nothing had happened to me before, I'd be perfectly alright-"

He breaks off from the tirade, turning his head away from the two. A muscle jumps beside his jaw where he clenches it. A couple of rough swallows, and he moves to face them again, eyes rimmed slightly red. Smith tries not to show recognition of that fact. He waits for Ross to begin again. His voice is quiet when he does.

"I stood on the railings, spray getting in my face, easy. The waves were so tall, I hadn't ever seen them like that. The moon was the only light, must've been power cuts around the place. The wind - God, the wind - I could barely keep the breath in my lungs, it was so strong it seemed to snatch it from me. It was... Amazing..." A bitter smile. "Course, I was only a child, and it was a storm. Got pulled in, started drowning. As you do."

Smith wants to do something, anything, to reassure, comfort this poor soul, but finds himself paralysed by the intensity of Ross's gaze. He returns to the story, voice barely a whisper, caught in the trap of memories.

"But I heard something, a voice. Thought I was going crazy, dying - was dying, but then again, I was stupid. I start to pray, not to any specific deity - probably the best decision I made that night - an' I felt the water around me go warm, an' suddenly I just know I can do something. I open my hands, like this," Ross has his palms cupped in front of him, posed as though he's about to lift a football into the air, "And suddenly, something's curled around me, swims to the edge of the water with me, and lifts me and itself out." 

Ross looks deeply at Trott, who suddenly seems very interested in the threads of Smith's tee.

"And it's this man, a man with red wings who, from the looks of things, is half-dead himself from the water, and looks incredibly pissed. It's Trott, and somehow, I received the ability to call upon fae as a child. From falling into the sea in the middle of a storm." He smiles wryly. "Took me home and disappeared again. Then I learnt how to cast actual spells, and then I summoned Trott a second time - again, accidentally - for University." He shrugs.

Smith's sleep-addled brain trundles along, struggling to work up any pace of processing. "So, you're a...?" 

Trott's deep voice interjects, roughed with torpor, "He's a Diviner. Stupid name. Not really what he does. But when Ross said he 'Read' you, it's quite true; he looked at both your body and soul. That's how he knew that it was you, not anything else, in your body. 'Cause it all matched up - single soul within you - except the part of your body and soul that is the city." Trott smiles at Ross, and not for the first time, the auburn haired man wonders at their relationship through University. Unrequited maybe. On both sides? Probably. 

They're all fuck-ups on some level.

"Show 'im, Ross." Trott nods reassuring at the other man. Ross closes his eyes, breathes in, and a look of utmost concentration etches itself into his features, as he presses both hands together. Smith watches as a faint glow begins, making the flesh look pink. It gets bright enough to see the bones of Ross's hands, elegant, before he opens both them and his eyes, smiling. The heat is easily felt, radiating from a single star-like point, concentrated light strong and cream. A corona streams uninterrupted from the surface as it hovers, bobbing slightly. When Smith reaches a finger towards it, tendrils snake lazily towards the digit, latching on and filling him with a comfortable warmth that he can't help but smile at.

He looks between the two men, joy overflowing. They both smile back at him, teeth glinting from the light of the gossamer sphere. Ross pulls it back hesitantly, and Smith is surprised at the sense of loneliness he feels when it loses contact with him. It rests in the dark haired man's left palm contentedly. Ross then looks directly at the auburn haired man, holds his right hand perfectly vertical as it faces him. 

Smith can't help but frown in curiosity, before two flat rings of light surround the hand, one just touching the tips of his fingers and the heel of his hand, the other with a radius two inches past the other, perfectly aligned with the plane of his palm. Strange symbols flicker into being in the space within the rings, some popping in and out of existence, others lingering. One flares twice periodically, and it takes him a while to realise it's synchronised with his heartbeats. "So that's how you read me...?"

Ross smiles. "Yeah."

"Huh..."

"What?"

"I dunno. Just really tired, I guess."

Trott chuckles under his breath. "Shall I?"

Ross just nods, smiling, as Smith lets out a small noise of dissension as he's bundled gently into the brunet's arms. There's a small flash of heat, and in a swirling disk of intertwined smoke and embers, the pair are seated on Smith's bed. Trott holds the man up, peeling back the covers, before he lets the man down gently onto the beg, settling the quilt back over him carefully. He pats the man on the side, then nimbly slips from the bed, leaving smith to sink into the much needed realms of sleep.

\---

Smith dreams that night, of terror and fire and death and ruins. Of laughter that makes the city shake, and hears a scream so terrible, his blood chills his own heart.

When he wakes, he doesn't remember anything but the scream, and the feeling of heat so severe his skin blisters from his flesh.


	7. I still can feel those splinters of ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's becoming increasingly apparent to me that the ability to churn out writing is directly proportional to the urgency of revision for exams.
> 
> That is to say, I should't have written this now. But I did. I am an idiot.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this mostly-fluff chapter.

He wakes with a moan of pain, cold light of a crisp morning flooding easily through uncovered windows, unabated, burning into his brain. He sits up, struggling with the non-compliant muscles of his large frame which seem determined to be as spiteful as possible. Roughly rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Smith shakily stands, the loss of the duvet a sudden and cold realisation, which leaves him cussing crudely to the house's heating system.

After actually having slept, Smith's now in a better position to try to understand what happened to him in the short space of a single evening. Or he should be, if it wasn't so fucking ridiculous. A multitude of images flickering through his mind, one of which is the woman in red, with the purple skin. Who was she? There was something... strange... With a shake of his head, unruly locks flicking in his eyes unhelpfully, Smith banishes the thoughts for as long as possible. 

He pushes back on the nightmare he can feel bubbling just vague and inescapable behind his ears. Takes a deep breath and ignores it in favour of more pleasant things.

He hears faint snatches of conversation from the kitchen - comforting syllables that rise and fall with the whim of topic - and decides he won't be a slob today, he'll be dressed before he gets downstairs. For the first time in a while, despite the situation so odd he just refuses to entertain it in his mind, Smith feels happy. Content. There is no weight of unrequited... whatever it is... hanging over his head. And now he understands the situation, at least a little better, he's not pissed at Trott's attempts at murder. 

Well, maybe a little. It's decent grudge material, if he needs some sort of favour, when whinging at Trott doesn't work, that most certainly will.

A little self-satisfied smile curls on his lips, but it's in no way malicious.

Smith strips the somewhat stale clothing of the previous day, then decides to just take a shower. A couple minutes of waiting for the temperature to reach the happy balance between skin-blisteringly hot, and life-threateningly cold, he steps inside.

\---

Smith feels like he's just bounded down the stairs like a puppy, slightly breathless, hair already a wavy mess. He's clad simply in a tee and casual khakis, as per the norm. He doesn't see the point in brand clothing, really. It's an amusing point of contention between him and Ross. He enjoys the opportunity for their discussions to devolve into inane ranting over benefits of clothes. Trott usually just sighs, rolls his eyes, and periodically snarks, wings fidgeting every so often, while his tail curls around a chair leg.

He's greeted with companionable chatter, and a cup of coffee. He gets his food together himself, then plops as lightly as a man of his stature is capable of doing, grin wide. Trott just looks over the rim of the mug he's taking a long draught from, dark eyes crinkled at the corners in fond amusement. Ross just smirks as he cuts away roughly at a somewhat charred slice of toast. 

Smith puts on his best shit-eating simper, and speaks in clipped tones. "Didn't know demons liked tea, Trott." He flicks a small piece of toast (better than Ross's) into his mouth cockily, trying to provoke a reaction from the brunet.

Trott just lowers the tea, remaining measured and unflappable as always, not rising for it. His voice is deadpan, and typically sonorous. "I'm a connoisseur, mate." The glimmering in his eyes belies the lackadaisical attitude.

Ross pipes up quickly, words a desperate flurry forced out of his mouth, having managed to cleave apart his breakfast into more manageable chunks. "And not just of tea, if you know what I mean - Oooh, dirty!" The last bit is practically a screech.

Trott just looks back at the pair balefully, as the two cackle, even knowing how terrible Ross's joke was. The funny part is always Trott's understated yet comical facial reaction to it.

"Jesus Christ, I should've seen that coming a mile off..." Trott mutters, then pauses, takes into account what he just said, the specific phrasing. Quickly lifts a hand and points rapidly and imperiously between the two with an arched eyebrow. "Don't. Just, don't."

Trott stands, walking close to the edge of the table, where his hips are just above the tabletop, then sidles up to Smith, who was sat opposite him. Smith looks up in askance at the shorter man having stopped next to him. The only reply he receives is a right hand reaching to cup his left cheek, tilt his head to look at him squarely. Smith is ashamed to admit he leans in minutely to the touch. A smirk and dark eyes meet him, as the brunet slips the hand away, fingertips lingering teasingly, and walks off to leave the mug by the sink, then leaves the room.

Smith sits dumbfounded staring at the empty wall across the table for him, trying to work out what just happened and what actually led to that sort of escalation, until Ross's seizing laughter shocks him out of the touch-induced stupor. A flash of irritation sparks in, and just as quickly out, of being. His head snaps round to face the darkest haired man. "What?"

He's met by Ross almost face-first into charcoal crumbs, cachinnating and clutching at his stomach. "Your face!" is wheezed between laughs.

Smith just grumbles without much annoyance. He supposes it's kind of karma for when he caught Ross in the kitchen when he tried to get information out of him that time...

\---

They spend the afternoon recording, and it's all back to normal again. Smith screaming. Ross beat-boxing. So many innuendos and so much swearing. And a multitude of gay jokes. Got to keep the quota high, of course.

The only difference now is they really do play footsie under the table. 

What a development.

\---

After staring at screens separately for a few hours, Trott muses that it's only right they collectively spend even more time in front of a bigger one. It's dark out already, night cloak drawing in faster and faster as day's sway over the hemisphere is further traded away. The curtains are closed to keep in the heat, and the only source of illumination is the vibrant hues thrown by the television screen. 

They're sprawled - that's the only way to describe it - and somewhat entangled, but nothing has quite passed the very close friends territory. Yet. I

Smith's in the middle of the three seater they're lucky enough to have, one foot resting on the floor, the other on Trott's seat. The brunet has his back aligned with the corner of the sofa, left leg draped over the seat, and coincidentally Smith's leg, the other flat to the sofa and curled around so the shin is pressed along the side of Smith's. Ross has his arms along the sofa back, left leg practically plastered to the auburn haired man's right, and the other is pulled up to his chest.

They choose a film, a crappy action film done some time in the nineties, vicarious, tasteless and with spurts of blood as red as ketchup. Trott and Ross generally snipe at the cinematography - or lack thereof - and Smith just grins as he listens, eyes closed and head tipped back as he relaxes, their undemanding companionship a calming balm.

\---

It's a surprise to learn that the film has finished. Smith hadn't been sleeping, just lulled into the weird semi-conscious state that exists between wakefulness and slumber, registering everything said, but not dwelling over it much. He finds it similar to when he gets into music, playing his guitar. After a while the minutes blur and vague hours have passed, chunks of time gone, but not lost.

The thing that rouses him is the sense of movement, a warm weight over him, and the light from the screen blotted out. Smith cracks an eye takes in what's in front of him, then is completely dumbstruck. Trott's kneeling with his legs to either side of Smith's, looking straight at him.

His mouth goes dry, jaw hangs open.

Trott chuckles. "Look, I'm flattered, mate, but we've been trying to get your attention for a while." The pleased little hook to the brunet's lips makes him further flush.

His eyes sweep to Ross, who shrugs, face impassive. "You were asleep mate."

Smith pouts. "Was not. Was just... resting my eyes, that's all." He yawns widely, though, and feels the effects of sleep accumulating in his bones.

Trott's mouth just twitches into a gentle smile, and after canvassing the room with efficient glances to either side of him, flits from his perch over Smith with tiny flicks of his sail-like wings. Jealously twinges through Smith, but he can't begrudge it to the demon.

Smith extricates himself from the clutches of the sofa, stretching briefly, then bids the two other men goodnight.

\---

Smith heads into the bathroom, having just changed into attire more appropriate for sleep. He cleans his teeth, goes through every other part of the routine methodically. When he's done, he reaches down to wash his hands swiftly.

That's when he sees it.

A strange silvery pattern, multiple weaving lines, really - texture and appearance reminiscent of healed scars, but less pink, and not raised - are beginning to follow the the exact path of the veins of his right hand, just emerging from the bundle of vessels near the heel of his hand. 

He rubs at the skin, trying to remove it, wash it off with soap. To no avail. It's not difficult to work out what caused it - when he touched the weaving light of the city, it was with his right hand. Shit shit shit. Shit. What should he do? 

It's obvious what he should do. Talk to Ross and Trott - Smith's not stupid.

He is, of course, an idiot, though. At this point he's accepted one of his least positive features. 

So he knows he'll sleep through the night (or at least try to). Knows he'll not talk to his friends about it tomorrow, either.

He'll go out tomorrow. Not for the city, nuh-uh. He's going to try and find her. The woman in red.


	8. Some say the Seventh sounds a little bit stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh jeez. Longest chapter I've written, and it's certainly a dialogue fest. Loads of exposition too. Woah, things are moving quickly.
> 
> A certain somebody shows up again, too. They might be my favourite character that I've written.
> 
> Also, lately I've been on a Suits binge - given that my RE GCSE was the other day, I really do question whether I actually understand what's going on - but I digress, so kudos to anyone who catches the reference.

Smith doesn't bother holding a good posture as he steadily works his way through his breakfast, elbow propped on the table and toast dangling lazily from his loose grip between bites. The illusion of comfort is necessary. For once, he's wearing a long-sleeved top, the creeping filigree having slithered further up his arm, even overnight.

The change in attire does not go unnoticed, both his friends having made comments on it.

Smith just smiles, blames it on the weather further chilling with the tight embrace of the growing winter. Frost is starting to ice the lawn in the shade and finely dust the honeyed leaves crisp on the ground.

Neither asks anything further, and Smith knows neither is stupid. They both know something's up, but they've always had better tolerance for holding cards close to their chests, and waiting. There's an edge to Ross' eyes, alighting sharply near his wrists, and scanning his body, his movements with a clinical and detached intensity, for any sign of injury.

Smith just plays dumb. He needs the opportunity to return to the bar unimpeded.

He just smiles a winning smile, edges of his eyes not quite crinkling, and leaves it at that.

\---

They spend the majority of the morning and their usual lunch hours to record, the game they're playing benefitting from a long exposure in order to fully grasp the mechanics.

The two other men bump their feet with his playfully under their desks, but do nothing more, go no further. He can feel them eyeing him over the top edges of the monitors, nowhere even as subtle as they think they're being. He doesn't react, let on that he knows.

\---

Smith has to mentally will himself to remain in the same position without excessively fidgeting and shifting on their sofa. As it is, he's rapidly drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa, bouncing his legs restlessly, incessantly, unconsciously.

He keeps becoming aware of it, has to suck in a sharp breath - sound as muted as possible - and slowly force it out of his lungs at a measured pace, in order to quell his heart, alleviate the adrenaline that anxiety is carelessly leaking into his veins. His stomach flutters unhelpfully. 

Trott's already asked him what's wrong, concern softening his eyes from tourmaline to chocolate, and bowing his sharp brows in consternation. His lips are canted downwards at the edges in a slight pout, enhancing the Cupid's bow, and haplessly drawing the worried man's flitting eyes for a few seconds before he shakes himself. Ross smirks at this, first genuine expression of the day.

Smith returns his eyes to the watch sequestered on his wrist under the knit of his pullover. He decides it's late enough, and stands.

"Right, I'm gonna go out for a bit, be back in a little while." He strides out of the room, brooking no arguments but not meeting either's eyes, hoping the apparent confidence that he projects puts to rest their worries, concerns. Knows it won't. They're really not stupid.

Smith pulls on a jacket, fumbles for his shoes and stuffs his feet in them like he can't wait to be outside. He actually feels the complete opposite desire, but he knows he has to do this. He's out the door with the slight yawn of its hinges opening and shutting.

\---

The first thing he registers as he steps outside is the cocoon of the threshold he knows and loves being peeled back off his skin, obscene and like the flesh and fat being pulled off his muscles. He feels sullied, and the oily slickness that the city plies as a second skin induces shudders and feels as though a multitude of... things... are seeping over him. Not an inch of him is spared as the vacuum left by his exit is filled stickily. 

After a slight stumble - he's shocked by how much worse the transition was this time - the auburn haired man rights himself, rearranges his limbs, and follows his memory to find his destination, ignoring the mocking fibrous strands of light that wind hyphal and constrictive through the city's wide throats.

He likes to imagine that they're sapping the life from the city, killing it slowly, painfully. He can't decide whether he hates the base instinct of the Ley Lines more than the barely-there awareness of the hulking beast he unfortunately resides in.

Somehow, though, he knows they're practically one and the same, a strange symbiotic sore on the land.

There is hardly a breath of air moving past him,and the very atmosphere around him seems frozen, or at least holding its breath. The surrounding calm doesn't alleviate his nerves.

Instead of watching the ribbons of glowing white beside and around him, he watches the blotches of inky night spread through the lofty hemisphere above him. Stars twinkle, distant guardians freed from suffocating sheets of cloud and left bare.

His breaths become huffs, and the moisture swiftly cools into writhing tendrils that are swiftly dashed by his person as he continues his quick trot on the balls of his feet, soles of his shoes barely scuffing with the speed of his passage.

The journey passes surprisingly quickly, and before he really has any idea of what he should do, his plan of action, he's already pressed the flat plane of his hand to the doorway and is enveloped in noise and shrouded in purple light. 

He walks over to the bar, crowds of fae parting like the Red Sea around him, orders the same drink as the last time, and schools his features as he settles down to wait.

\---

He feels the life in the room change, electricity crackle and flicker across his skin. The pulsating of the lights and the constant concrete wall of sound remain, and yet his senses seem sharper. The fine details in the room leaping out at him - scraping of glasses on tables a short distance away, hushed conversation, soft chuckles, grain of the table rougher, and colours more vibrant. 

His first thought is that his drink's been spiked, but nobody's stepped anywhere near him - there's no chance. A twinge emanates from his right wrist, but he pushes down on the instinct to clamp his other hand around it, instead sitting still, just waiting.

There. He hears it, soft swish of fabric against itself, clinking of multiple bangles. She's here. He doesn't react, gives nothing away as she sits on the stool next to him, feet hooked behind the metal bar that serves as a footrest. The bartender brings her a drink, served in an elegant, long-necked glass. She lifts it with her first two fingers and thumb, swirls the rich plum liquid discerningly as she looks for curtains within it. A smile tugs on the corner of her lips. 

Tonight, they're stained evergreen, and her nails match. It sets off the writhing purple patterns on her skin. Her hair falls to the right of her face, baring the vivid tinge, and the left side of her scalp has been shaved. Instead of the red dress, she wears all black - jeans, vest, boots and asymmetric-zipped jacket. Multiple silver loops of metal adorn her wrists.

She looks him up and down, distaste fleeting but there in her swift assessment of his clothes. The sneer is audible. "Nice of you to dress classy. I was trying to match you this time, hence the jacket." 

Smith's immediately pissed, and takes a swig before speaking. "Thought this place needed a bit of classing up." 

"You're funny." Faux amusement is heavy in her voice, but he can hear the dangerous tone. He risks a quick peek at her face, sees the Stepford smile like a death mask over her well-proportioned features, hollow and threatening. He quickly sobers himself, decides that he will not joke with her again.

"So." She pauses, takes a small sip from her drink causing a genuine smile to grace her face briefly. "What brings you to my humble establishment, a second time?" She gestures with outspread palms, bracelets clinking, easily heard even over the pounding music, and glances around in a show of fake curiosity.

He grimaces, knowing full well she knows he needs some sort of help. "Look, I realise we got off on the wrong foot the other day -"

A sharp laugh, tinny and strained, breaks his forthcoming stream of apologies. "You're right. I didn't realise you had any idea of etiquette at that point, but you're apologising now, so... obviously you realise you did something wrong." She bares her teeth, purple lighting warped on their shiny surfaces. They're sharper than they have any right to be. "Which leads me to inform you, that you have caused me a great deal of trouble." Her right hand, leant on the dark wood of the bar, curls slowly into a fist, nails pressing into the meat of her hand, beaching the surrounding skin white with pressure.

Smith gulps. It's all he can do.

As if snapped out of a trance, the woman turns back to her drink, and the oppressive atmosphere lifts. He can feel a drop of sweat creep down the skin at his temple. It reminds him of the city's caress, and he shivers involuntarily. The movement draws a sideways glance, dark pupils and irises peering at him, unbidden by hair. She raises a single brow archly. "So, what's your problem?"

"How do you know I have a problem?" His voice is thick with offence.

"Well, I do now." Smugness radiates from her. "Anyway, anyone sitting at a bar, drinking alone, jacket sill on, where they were last threatened with death, definitely has a problem."

He glares, unimpressed by her cheek, prompting a laugh, unforced and free, from her poison-green lips. It rings pleasantly, and surprises Smith with the warmth. He turns his observation back to the base of his tumbler, to the liquid that reminds him of Trott's eyes when they catch the light. He's pretty sure he could get drunk on those alone, just keep staring until he can't-

Sharp clicking of fingers beside his ears. "Hey, eyes up here." He just lifts his vision from the bottom of the glass, stares at her affronted. She continues, a wry curling to her lips. "See, that's funny, 'cause you were looking at the glass, not my-"

"How many guys have you said that to that you haven't been intending to kill for their transgression?"

"Who said I didn't still want to kill you... Also, girls too, but usually they actually listen when somebody tells them they're not interested." She tilts her head, movement sharp, inhuman, reminding Smith of quite what she is - fae - and observes his reaction to the statement. When she sees no adverse tells on his face, she turns to face him fully, sobered. "What's the matter?"

He sighs, but guesses it's better to just get it out there. He shucks off his jacket, pulls back his right sleeve, and bares his wrist by bending back his hand in a loose curl. Purple shimmers across the silvered skin. "This."

Her index finger's cold and clammy on his skin, like that of a corpse submerged. He suppresses the shudder that goes through him, not wanting to cause her offence. He's not quite sure how he knows, but he's sure she's grateful for that small token gift. She hisses when her skin touches the metallic lines. "Yep." She drawls the word, drawing out the 'y' with no little amount of distain. "I though as much." She taps his chest with a single finger, hand not lingering. He's grateful. "It's heading there. You don't want it to, I don't think. The more time you spend in the city's threshold, the quicker it'll be... but it's already made a lot of progress in a short time. You've noticed things changing, right? You could see everything. Now you've got sharper senses, yeah?"

He nods, it's all he can do.

She breathes a few choice expletives under her breath. "Great, okay." She shifts in her seat, the once seemingly unflappable woman now showing signs of worry. She places both hands on his upper arms, making him face her squarely. She stares deeply into his eyes, then scans his face restlessly, looking for god knows what.

"O-okay." A shaky smile and slightly hysterical laugh break free. Her right hand lifts from his arm, but just as quickly returns, whatever action she was about to do aborted. "I need to explain this to you. Basically, it's bad-"

"What do you mean. Look, can it be fixed, stopped, are you going to have to kill me, oh God-"

"Shh! Stop. Okay. Okay, prophecy time, how cliché, right?" She looks to the side, then back at him imploringly. "You're the Seventh, okay? The city chose you, and you can't deny it. It happened to you two days ago, yeah. Sunday. The seventh day of the week. Oh the bastard, I bet it thinks that's poetic... Alright, so on Sunday, next Sunday, you're gonna be... different. After sunset. It'll be a beautiful day, and you can't do anything to stop what'll happen." 

She leans back, apologies unspoken between them. He's struck dumb, can't speak, doesn't have anything to say. Her face slowly hardens; he can practically hear the thoughts swirling in her mind. "Shit, do you live with anyone. Girlfriend, boyfriend, housemates...?"

He nods hesitantly, haltingly.

"Oh no." He barely hears the words, and she's already standing, pulling at his sleeve, even as he pulls on his coat, stumbling after her own sure and swift steps. 

She turns out of the blue, just before the door. "I'm Kim, by the way." She's absurdly small compared to Smith, but then again he's stupidly tall. "Keep holding onto my hand, it should make the transition between thresholds easier." She grips his own warm, dry palm with her cool, damp one. Her hold is strong, but reassuring.

"I'm Smith. Well, Alex Smith. Force of habit, all my friends just call me Smith"

"Well Smith, I hope one day, somewhere, to be friends with you. I'm sorry for what you're going to have to go through. Now, come on, we have to tell your... friends...?"

He realises belatedly he never specified what they were, exactly. He doesn't really know the answer, anyway. "Yeah..."

She gestures sharply with her chin, jutting it towards the door, before dragging him easily out of the door by hand.

It feels less of a violation when he steps outside, Kim's influence holding the city away, for now.


	9. I'm not seized in desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait you had for this to update. I got caught up with other ideas, and basically, just had no idea what I was going to write for this chapter.
> 
> Please enjoy, anyway. And also, in a couple of weeks, my GCSEs will happen a lot more frequently, maybe three, four a week, so it's doubtful that there'll be many updates during that time. (Just in case I go quiet.)

Not a single word passes either Smith's or Kim's lips, both entirely focussed on reaching the three's place of residence in as short a space of time as is possible. They're both panting, the auburn haired man's shoulders and chest visibly heaving, though his breaths are not yet ragged, while the fae in Kim is evident - there is no outward indication of any physical fatigue she might feel, she just keeps running with steady and even movements.

Getting the blood flowing and neurones firing is more invigorating than he's ever felt it. The blatant fact of this doesn't pass Smith by, instead making him further aware of the transfiguration crawling through his being. With his only true solace being with his two friends, his rampant thought processes and creeping realisations begin to spread like choking thorns through his mind, positivity swiftly sapped and replaced by terrible bleakness. 

Smith gulps heavily, muscles in his throat seeming to want to disobey him, making it difficult. With a snarl, he registers the film of liquid gathering along the lower eyelids, stinging in the cold, and he brings his left arm up to swipe the tears in an angry move.

He grits his teeth, and pushes himself further, legs burning more with every lengthened stride. Smith reckons he deserves it for all the stupid choices he's made. He grits his teeth, bares them as he grimaces with a burst of self-loathing from somewhere deep inside him. He hates it hates it hates it.

"Smith..."

He ignores the black haired woman's plaintive tone, features set into stony rage.

"Smith. Look, I meant what I said before." The statement comes out of left-field, knocks his distain slightly out of kilter. Before he can smooth his expression, he turns his head to her, and she winces when she sees his vulnerability written over his face. They slow, having reached the apartment, and she reaches to hold his upper arm, gives it a single firm shake for reassurance. "I really do hope to be your friend. To know you properly. I doubt we have the time."

She smiles, the action strained, and he meets it with a wobbly one of his own. The phrasing of what she said was odd, but Smith's certain it makes sense.

He doesn't know how he already trusts her with his life, absolutely feels safe, but he accepts the fact with open arms. It seems he needs as much help as he can find, anyway. 

The door has never seemed so imposing, not even after his - for want of a better word - tiff, with Trott. He scrabbles with slightly numbed fingers in his pocket for the keys, flicks through his myriad key rings (he could never get them off after he got them attached) and inserts it with a neat clunk.

\---

After flicking on a couple of lights - Ross and Trott mustn't have moved from the front room since he left - he beckons Kim further in, points to where she can hang her jacket and leave her shoes. She rubs her arms, teeth clenched like she's cold, and when Smith lightly rests a hand on her back, he feels her shivers. "Kim? Kim, are you alright?" The worry is an edge in his voice.

She sucks in a slow draught of air through her teeth, before straightening up. "Yeah, yeah." She bats away his arm. "It's just - the threshold, it's very strong." A strained laugh. "Whoever put it in place certainly knew what they were doing..."

Smith winces. He should probably have told her quite what his housemates are. Hmm. 

He steps towards the door, pushing it open easily and stepping inside while looking back down the hallway, beckoning Kim to follow him. He's bathed in the homely glow of the living room. "C'mon, they should be through here..."

He pushes her inside the room, gently, the fact that she's fae almost completely escaped from his mind. He looks to his friends, both of whom look disgruntled and not a little angry.

"Smith, who's she?" He practically bites it out, dark eyes swirling with a hatred the auburn haired man can't recall, and lips pulled into a sneer, and not a little familiarity evident. He definitely knows her.

Ross looks equally vehement, and he swears he sees sparks flickering and jumping across the man's palms as he clenches and unclenches them. "Do you know what you've done?"

As this happens, he feels Kim stiffen beside him, spine going ruler-straight, and when she speaks it's an outraged hiss. "You!" Smith looks between the brunet and the black haired woman, nonplussed. What the hell is going on? "How dare you meddle with him?" She gestures wildly at the tallest man, actions made sloppy with loathing.

Trott's on his feet and in the other fae's space almost quicker than Smith could register, the embers and smoke still swirling where he was before, and flames are licking across his wings, which are mantled above him. His tail is held still, sharp bladed barb at the end poised to slash, and his hands are white-knuckled fists.

Kim just laughs, baring her overly sharp teeth in a predator's smile, and the air gets thicker, harder to breathe; it's cloying in his lungs. She speaks quietly. "Jealousy doesn't become you."

Trott snarls, the animalistic nature of the sound legitimately scaring Smith. There's something about the inhuman growl that triggers an instinct squirrelled deep within his brain, and he backs away as subtly as he can. The demon's glowing now, hovering a couple of inches from the floor as his body reconstitutes into writhing patterns and trails of yellow-orange plasma - like the surface of the sun, but nowhere near as bright. It's still on the verge of being painful to glimpse with his slightly enhanced sight. Trott's eyes are dark pits now, heavy under a corona of flames.

The auburn haired man notes Ross is doing something from his perch on the sofa, a softly glowing orb hovering beside his head as he frantically pulls runes from his surroundings, of draws them into reality, and rearranges them, subtly changing their environment. 

He notes the sudden oily sheen to the walls, like there's some translucent but iridescent liquid slowly slipping down glass all around them, and in an instant there's a lot more space around them, area somehow clear of furniture. Ross has a few completed light discs slowly orbiting him in different paths, each obviously dictating a different effect that has been placed on the room.

He looks pale though, eyes more heavily shadowed underneath than usual, and the way he bites his lip seems less an unconscious tick now, and more a way of dealing with pain. Smith rushes over, feels the man's sweat slick forehead, which is cooler now than it should be. He pulls the man flush against him, arms encircling the man in an embrace to warm and comfort. 

Ross leans on him, heavy-limbed, and mumbles thanks, explains to him that the confrontation should be over soon, but just to be safe, he's put some wards in place.

He looks back to Kim, sees her hair hanging lank and water-sodden past her face, eye's gone wholly black. Her hands are gnarled and bone white, like there's no circulation him her flesh, her face a matching pallor. Her black clothes are sopping wet, droplets falling to the ground to meet the already sizeable puddles patched around her. While Trott glows like magma, the air around Kim is dark, but eerily so, like any light is being absorbed. A fine mist curls around her feet.

"What did you say to him, to make him believe that you could help him?" There's a strange quality to the brunet's voice, like it hangs in the air longer than it should. The outline of his body is made vague by twining tongues of light.

There's a bitter laugh from between the now thin lips of the woman. "So you knew of his affliction, of his part in this city's future, but you haven't explained to him yet?" 

"No. Because Ross and I have been trying to figure out how to help him." 

"You could've at least asked him how far it's progressed - Smith, have they even seen your arms?" He can hear the smirk.

Trott turns fully towards him, and he physically recoils from the abrupt intense focus of the two powerful fae who are near in their true forms. The gravity in the room seems stronger, the air more oppressive, and his lungs are fit to burst.

He can't say anything, scrabbling with wide eyes at his top to pull back the sleeve, to reveal the gilt on his skin.

"Look at that, Trott, look at it." The fae woman seems serious now, sobered and subdued. "He hasn't got much longer. You don't." The darkness around her is dispersing, pulling away. Trott reaches for his arm, body cooling once more to normal flesh, still slightly warmer than it should be, and with careful fingertips, traces he veins of his arm.

"Oh no." Trott's voice is small, the words a hushed gasp.

"Trott, it's happening, and quicker than both you and Ross thought it would. Than anyone thought it would. Don't you want some help. You need it - let me help you, let me do something worthwhile with my life."

The demon turns to the other fae, defenses lowered - it's obvious in the slump of his shoulders and the curl of his spine. "Okay."

Kim rushes forward, and Smith's surprised. She wraps her now flesh-toned arms around the brunet, squeezes tightly, and he reciprocates, tilting his head down to rest his still hot cheek on her dampened head with a small sizzle, still near a foot taller than her. She steps back after a little while, reaches a hand up to his sharp cheek. "I'm sorry for what I said before..." Smith gets the feeling she's referring to something that happened a long, long time ago.

Trott smiles weakly, but genuinely. "Thank you, that's okay."

Smith's still confused, though. He looks to Ross, whose lips are softly curled. "What just happened?" His brain boggles, even knowing that fae are capricious with emotions as changeable as the weather in Britain on a spring afternoon. 

Ross replies with a quiet voice, face smushed against Smith's shoulder so he can feel the man's jaw working to enunciate each syllable. "Trott told me about her a while ago. They're pretty close, which is really unusual for fae of different types... they're practically siblings, they're that close. They've had bad things happen. I'm glad they've worked it out." The taller man notes absently that the wards have fizzled out, runes disintegrating in small bursts of light.

The fae turn to look at the two men practically tangled up on the sofa. Trott smiles fondly. He looks back to Kim. "Do you want a drink, then we can work out what we have to do next?"

"Yeah, tea, please?" Trott heads out to the kitchen, clattering about as he gets everything he needs from the various cupboards.

The auburn haired man can't stop the next words that tumble from his lips. "What is it with fae and tea?" He's genuinely taken aback.

Kim just laughs softly from where she's hunkered cross-legged on a chair across from the sofa.


	10. Some days are strange to number

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo. It's been a while for this one. Sorry about that. Blame my GCSEs.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this - it's mainly fluff, anyway, before I get to writing plot when I actually have time to think! ;)

All four sit in the living room, and the space seems made small by the presence of the two fae, but in a pleasant way - cosy, even. Smith wants to relax, to be warmed through by the comfort provided to him, but he keeps feeling twinges worming their way up his arm, knows the silvering sheen is creeping further up his arm like an unshakable fibrous mould, sinister and eldritch, and wholly unknown.

Through various lines of conversation, ebbing and flowing for a couple hours, it turns out that neither fae truly knows what the city wants, let alone what's actually happening to Smith. Both pour through arcane and vague knowledge spoken in a hissing and guttural language, while the auburn and dark haired men remain entwined and drowsy on the sofa.

Smith drifts, occasional sounds catching his attention like the flicker of interest a lazy cat gives a distant bird, but his brain and body are both too drained to stay properly aware much longer. Ross's face is pressed into the crook between his neck and shoulder, and every breath brings a flutter of air across the juncture. Legs are tangled and arms are coiled around each other and if he were more awake right now, he swears he'd push himself away in a show of propriety, of gentility, to the other man, but he feels clingy and wanting - almost selfishly so - and is content to monopolise the other man.

And so he drifts.

The varying fae tongues the two are trawling through for fuck knows what are soothing in their sibilance, strangely quelling, as fast-flowing water over rocks, and Smith reckons he could listen two the two talk like that all day.

A guilty little thought tells him he'd like Trott talking like that in a different scenario - one with sweat-slicked limbs, harsh breaths, and careful teeth - but in his lethargy he's able to banish the imagery as idle fragments, settling further into the warm cocoon Ross is around him.

Gradually, he notes the voices lowering in pitch, cautious to let him and Ross, the other man pulled flush against him, rest without interruptions. He feels the air in the room change, and the dark haired man twitches slightly in sleep, as Kim vanishes in a fine spray of droplets, refracted light spelling out the spectrum in an arc.

Through the crack in his eyelids, he sees Trott remain where he's sat for a bit longer - he has no ability to judge the length of time with his brain skipping minutes like they're mere heartbeats - before he stands, clothes - unmarred by his fiery transubstantiation earlier in the evening - whispering over his skin. He turns to look over the men curled together like puppies, soft and loose-limbed, and his eyes skip across them with fondness and some melancholy.

Smith doesn't let on he's awake. He's curious at the demon's actions. The brunet just stands there, like he's trying to emboss the image to his retinas, to burn it there for all eternity so as never to forget the image.

It's difficult for the auburn haired man to admit - that there is indeed cause for these actions - and he just uses the numbness of sleep to cast away his regret and to mute the roiling of his stomach at the thought. Instead, he just drifts.

He observes through the slit of vision he has, the brunet lean down, tendons of his hands and sinewed forearms working as he reaches to brush hair from Smith's face, to cup Ross's. The digits trail, suddenly listless, before the demon squeezes his eyes shut and breathes quiet but shakily. Like he's either trying to reassure himself or talk himself out of something stupid; Smith's seen that look before, when they were eighteen and stupid with skateboards and rollerblades.

Finally the man unfreezes, shucking out his wings with a hushing scrape, and leans forwards, a palm planted squarely between each man's scapulars, radiating heat, and pulls them closer with that wiry strength so belied by his slender frame. They're pressed so close to his chest - almost in an embrace - that the auburn haired man can smell the scent that seems so normal, so human, of the demon, all clean and sharp. Light is muted, cast deep scarlet, as the translucent and ever-shifting wings are settled like a cradle around them, and then he smells burning, feels heat - but not a painful, searing heat, just a warm, enthusing one. 

Illumination is cast from all around, and then fades away in a swirl of smoke and embers.

He doesn't quite know what just happened, if anything. There was no sense of movement, and yet they're undeniably in a different room - Ross's, he thinks - pitch black with the cool sheets of the bed beneath them, and they're being laid down with eternal care. Ross breathes in and draws even closer, stretching before murmuring, unconscious but content, and it prompts the auburn haired man's stomach to drop when he sees what this does to the other man. 

The demon flinches before pausing, like he's been cursed by Medusa, stock-still and emotions written clear in his eyes. He can feel the anguish of the man even in his sleep-riddled state.

And he's undeniably a man in that instant, just as human as both Smith and Ross are. And he can't bear to see a little bit of his soul plucked away by thinking he's not loved equally, that he has no right to feel how he does, that he's lesser, and so, undeserving. 

Because that's what it is. Love. How did Trott never know? He supposes his esteem might be lower than his.

So he forces his brain to kick up a gear, wake up, right now. The demon draws himself away with resignation, rising from where he was crouched above them like a gargoyle, and Smith flails his hand out to catch the thin wrist of the brunet, fingers unresponsive with exhaustion. He props his eyes open as far as he can, bores their eyes together as imploringly as he can, and croaks at the man with his voice uncomplying with sleep. "No. Stay."

For a few seconds, they lock eyes, the brunet's searching his, and Smith tries to emanate the honesty, to let it spread from him so the other man will believe him. He acquiesces after a short time. Then looks down at what he's wearing, suddenly bashful.

"Do you mind...?" He indicates his chest, or more specifically, the checked shirt he has on. It takes a little while for the taller man's brain to catch up, but when he twigs, he can't suppress the frisson of excitement that runs through him from head to foot, just a subtle thrill. His unreserved and just barely lascivious smile says it all.

Blushing far too much for any demon, Trott efficiently unbuttons his shirt, leaving his jeans on. The other men are still in their more comfortable tees, so Smith supposes it's fair. For the second time in his life, he sees Trott shirtless. Though with his brain so smudged by sleep, it's not quite the occasion it could have been.

The demon lies down next to him, curling up close but not quite touching. With a laborious roll of his neck, the auburn haired man somehow communicates his unhappiness with the scenario, and the brunet hesitantly draws closer, as though he's just waiting for Smith to bolt. 

He doesn't.

Trott eventually ends up pressed flush against his back, skin incredibly warm against him, a result of the fire in his veins. A lean arm snakes over his waist, and a tail around his leg, while something else - a wing, he guesses - is carefully draped lightly over the two men, radiating heat like a space heater. Smith easily drifts again, with the comforting presences of the two other men surrounding him.

His nightmares seem a little less potent that night.


	11. Awaken all those whispers in the dusty shadow of a passing stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so short! Basically, my last exam is tomorrow, and straight after that, I'll be away, and I don't know if I'll have wifi, so I won't be able to post anything (and maybe not write anything?! :s) until 1st July.
> 
> So if you send me a message, please don't think I'm ignoring you, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. (Also, this next bit is mainly for Roehr) If anything is posted, and I'd usually comment, I will do so as soon as possible. :3
> 
> But yeah. Enjoy this next bit of Smith angsting. I feel there's probably two chapters left in this, and I intend for each of them to be 2k or more. So look forward to that. :3
> 
> See you all soon!  
> Siera x

Smith wakes with warmth ensconcing him and the slight tack of skin touching skin where their limbs are tangled. He's been pulled back towards Trott's chest, and the demon's slender frame is draped across him, heavy with sleep. He feels a rhythmic gusting of breath against his nape, and it sets the just-unruly hairs there fluttering. He squirms slightly, sensation ticklish, and he flexes his feet as he shifts.

Similarly, Ross has drawn closer, face pressed agains the tallest man's shoulder while his arms are curled in close between their bodies, and his legs are pulled up slightly. He looks just as tranquil as the brunet seems, lashes a dark shadowing equaling the hue of his brows. His hair is still slick, and the gelled-up shape semi-preserved, residue of the product he uses clinging to the strands. The man looks calmer than he's ever seen him. 

A warmth builds beneath his stomach, and he realises a smile must just be hinting on his lips. He pulls his arm up with sluggish movements, sleep still heavy in his veins, and uses his fingers to eek away at the sleep in the corner of his eyes, shuddering slightly at the sticky substance. He's always hated that stuff. Disgust colours his features heavily.

The two men seem content to sleep - after all, it's Ross's bed, he has every excuse to be there - and Smith sets about extricating himself from leadened appendages, and heavy guilt. He doesn't quite know why he feels it, why he feels the acidic burn of shame in his mind, why he feels the creeping doubts over their shifting dynamic as being beneficial. 

And fuck, why is he ashamed? Nothing happened between them.

And even if anything had happened, there would have been nothing wrong with it.

He can't shake it, though, and when he eventually makes it to the foot of the bed having only prompted snuffling snores with his heavy treads on the mattress, the thoughts are still whirring, corrosive and stale in his brain.

He spares a glance behind him, rakes his eyes over the two prostrate figures who look so good together, who compliment each other so well, who have and understand magic. A fizzle of hurt runs through him as he thinks himself inadequate, sees the shift of a leg and the twitch of a hand towards the space between them as proof of the two's gravity that constantly acts on them, like a star and planet - no, scratch that, some sort of binary star system, bright and alive, and wildly so - and ponders whether he's just a rogue body, snatching light from the two, untethered and reckless, and ultimately a parasite.

Occasionally he gets like this. Doubts what and who he is, really. He's never hated himself, but it's been a close thing. So, the pain welling in his sternum as he sees the newly undisturbed perfection of his two closest friends is unsurprising, but the sharp lance of bodily pain up his right arm, wrist to shoulder, and practically in sympathy, is.

He barely mutes the gasp and expletives with gritted teeth, follows the line of filigree masking his veins the whole way up his arm in absolute horror, clawing at the shoulder of his tee to find the ends of the silvered trail. No. No, that's not-

He desperately cranes his neck, all the while severely stretching the thin material to find where the usual course of his veins might begin. He can't find it. He pads with heavy but panic-quickened footfalls to the bathroom, lifts his tee desperately, just pulls it off, and looks, aghast.

The lines have snaked way up his arm, trails dividing and regrouping like the course of a river, and the skin of his shoulder shines with the intricate patterns that trail to coat his veins. His chest looks as though it's got an abstract tattoo, but instead of bold black lines, or vivid colour blocks, he has his every vein over a rough half of his chest glossed with precious metal, from the pit between his clavicles, to the dip below his right pec.

Oh god. What should he do?! His blurred brain fumbles for the date - Friday? - and he realises with horror, that by Sunday, he might be dead.


	12. Trading in my shelter for danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long the update for this fic took. Just so you guys know, no matter how long it takes, I will finish every fic. I know how I want to end them, you see. The problem is the motivation to do it. Some of them are passing fancies, you see, and sometimes you have one prompt or idea you really want to do, but never get around to eat, so it eats at you as you write other things. It's quite annoying.
> 
> Also, thank you to the lovely people who supported me over the past few weeks; Roehr and NanoEnderGalaxy, Monty, and Zenary. You're all wonderful people and you deserve happiness. <3
> 
> Well. Here's the penultimate chapter. It contains many hot beverages, some food, some fluff, a massive amount of introspection, and yet more angst! You guys love me, right? Anyway, I love this au, so I might do more of this, and some of the usual UMY, too.

Absently, Smith runs the pads of his left hand along his silvered skin, unable to sense any difference in the texture or temperature of the flesh there. His thoughts roil as much as the water that's writhing in the kettle behind and to the side of him. He's leant against the counter where Ross would normally stand, watching the barely-heated unfurling of the coming day. The sky is sheathed in a moth-eaten grey, the few patches of blue that show through cold and isolated. Weak light breaches a couple patches, before becoming entwined with the gnarled and bared branches of the tiny copse behind their house. The sun's low in the sky, winter burgeoning and heavy where they should still have autumn and it's golden light.

The kitchen looks washed out. Doubtless he does, too. Bags under his eyes from the last few long days and his poor sleep routine. Fuck, is he tired. A lethargy hangs over him, one that saps his energy. He wants to care, but even his concern for Sunday - and the fuck is going to happen then? - is made dull by how bone-weary he feels. The tiles are cold beneath his feet, bare and slipper-less. His pyjama bottoms are thin and loose, helping little with warming him. He pulled the tee back on as soon as he summoned his wits about him again. He doesn't need them worrying. Seriously. If he doesn't acknowledge what's happening, then...

No. No. It's all fine.

Smith hisses a few curses under his breath, tipping his head back to rest against the cheap wood-effect on the cupboard above the worktop, baring his throat as a kind of fuck you to his situation, no matter how scared he actually is. It's so much easier if you hide.

The kettle rumbles to a boil, and Smith listlessly returns to the quiet task of making tea for one as his friends slumber on, feeling a strange blend of peacefulness and defeat. Almost zen-like, if he had to describe it. He's living in the moment for the first time in his life, really. Cataloging everything again; the wait there is for the kettle, the chill air of a house early in the morning, even when lived in. The feel of the painted wooden banister of the stairs on his string callused digits, and the quiet of a Friday morning before people are rushing last-minute to work.

The silence. It's not lonely. Not comforting, either, though it's the closest he can get to describing it. He isn't in any way protected by the silence, but somehow he feels safe. It reminds him of when he was a child, waking up early to play with his toys, or read, or watch Saturday morning TV before his parents woke. Secret, quiet. And of being a teenager and staying up till the small hours to play games on his computer, watch YouTube videos in its infancy. Again: secret, quiet.

As soon as the kettle's roar has faded to a hiss, he lifts it, pouring into his mug. He doesn't usually drink tea, more of a coffee man. Trott's the tea drinker, occasionally spilling it on his keyboard when they record. But there's something about tea for him. He remembers going out with his dad to the beach, flask of tea with heaps of sugar, ready for them after a bracing walk in bitter weather. Or sitting on the back doorstep with a small cup clasped betwixt his tiny hands as a late summer night finally cooled while the brilliant sun lowered from its high vantage. 

After settling the appliance back down on its contact again, he inspects his left hand with a detached sweep, noting blemishes and the veins there, the individual skew of his little finger, the lines inscribed there. He doesn't remember every story that left the marks and quirks there. He feels old. So many memories and experiences that his brain doesn't hold.

He pulls his fingers into a tight fist, then relaxes it again, lowering it with a scoff. He pulls open the drawer, and with more care than he'd ever usually bother with, pulls out a teaspoon, noting the patches of salt-staining from the dishwasher, florid and intricate, and the thin scratch down the slender handle. He dips the spoon into the brown liquid - as deep and dark as Trott's eyes, and stirs carefully, avoiding the intrusive clinking or scraping of the metal against porcelain. The mug is a more delicate one than he'd normally use, but then, he doesn't usually have tea, either. He applies pressure to the tea bag to squeeze it out, and plops it onto a saucer that they usually keep for Trott's varied teas, leaving the teaspoon in the cup.

He sweeps to the fridge, pulls out the litre bottle of semi-skimmed with it's alsmiffy-green lid, and drops the cool liquid into the mug, watching the swirling of varying hues of brown in a pretty ballet at the surface of his drink, it's coiling dance distorted by the interference of its currents with the spoon. He swirls it to mix the shades, huffing contentedly when the colour becomes a uniform tan. Perfect.

He relaxes back into Ross's spot, feeling an almost peculiar sense of belonging, even amongst everything that's happening. Maybe a couple years ago, he would've questioned it's cause, but he does feel a little more mature than that self. Just slightly. So he knows exactly why. It's them. His friends. His partners? And surely they know. They know that he undoubtedly, most demonstrably, loves them.

He lifts the mug to his lips, two fingers curled through the handle, feels the steam soothing against his face and neck, the edge of the cup seeming sharp against the corners of his lips because of its fineness. It's hot down his throat, on the verge of scalding, but not quite. He wonders if this is as close to feeling fire in veins like Trott must as he'll ever get.

His traitorous mind worries again at his slowly creeping dread. Unable to resist, his eyes flicker back to his right arm; the arm he's consciously been avoiding looking at. Tries to look with a clear mind, an unbiased one. It's pretty, he supposes. The intricacy something to marvel at. He almost looks like a chip-board, like one of the components that fascinates him so much. He laughs, darkly amused.

He supposes there are worse things he could remind himself of.

\---

Smith asks if they can spend the day in the clothes they were already in. Neither man seems bothered, both agreeing to it with an ease that suggests they both want it too. A lazy day. No demand between the three of them. They've done a shitload of bulk recording, so they have plenty of material to upload. None have broached the subject of work after Sunday.

Just as Smith did, the two other men start the day with a hot beverage. Trott volunteers, and quickly, there's a cup of coffee for both Ross and Smith, inbound. Ross is sat next to he auburn haired man more closely than he'd usually be, practically plastered from shoulder to hip. Trott however, is hovering on the far side of the room, holding a large mug of peppermint tea. He must have pulled his shirt back on when he got up. His wings are pulled tight to his body, their wine hue hidden away from Smith as though he's once more no longer trusted to see them. And it hurts a little bit. Smith know it has nothing to do with him, more to do with his anxiety for the coming ultimatum but still...

The day's spent interchangeably eating snacks or drinking hot drinks, while the television blares with movies and shows; there's a curious mixture of inane comedies, overwrought and shallow sci-fi, and shitty action films. Ross and Smith mock while Trott snorts, and occasionally adds dry commentary. But Trott is quiet, too quiet. And Ross is trying too hard to add volume, levity. Occasionally, Smith finds himself observing their body language, watching for their little foibles and tells that he's noted and decoded over the years. 

Ross's hands are gathered in his lap, almost primly. Though he's so close to Smith, it seems he's trying to keep distant, to reduce the pain to him. He's trying so hard for Smith, that it makes the tallest man's heart ache a little. Trott, on the other hand, has his right hand locked white-knuckled around his left wrist, as though to keep himself from reaching out and touching, from wanting to draw closer, this in an effort to distance himself, somewhat like Ross.

By four it's dark out, the heavens that strange, luminous navy, of cloud-clogged skies in an early winter evening. Street lamps feebly push the dark away in spheres around them. Cars passing by are few and far between. Trott pushes off the wall, and heads towards the windows, pulling the curtains shut, and sealing out the city. The television casts more than enough light for the demon to navigate the room - not that he'd have needed it anyway, really - to flick on the little lamp in the corner. With its illumination, and Ross's contact, the room is warm and comforting.

"Are you hungry?" Trott gestures with his thumb to the wall, behind which the kitchen lies. The two men on the sofa nod eagerly. Abashed, the brunet glances at the clock. "I know it's a bit early, but we haven't really eaten properly all day. I don't know about you, but I'm starving." He quirks an eyebrow. "Cheese on toast?" Both Smith and Ross smile.

Trott makes great cheese on toast.

\---

Within half an hour - given the unpredictability of their oven, even simple food sometimes takes a while - Trott returns baring two plates with the posture of a waiter. Smith and Ross both grab for theirs, lack of manners forgiven with an indulgent smile from the shortest man. Smith closes his eyes as he inhales from the plate with its edge pressed to his sternum, mouth watering. There's two rounds of bread, and the fact they're wholemeal can be forgiven for the mixture of cheddar and red Leicester, with sage and a tiny drizzle of balsamic vinegar. He's halfway through the first round before Trott returns with his plate. It prompts a fond smile on the brunet's face, even while he secludes himself away against the wall once more.

The evening unfolds with yet more crap telly and boisterous joking, innuendo. But slowly, as time progresses, the dynamic between them shifts. As Trott pulls closer - his need for contact with Smith, to reassure both the taller man and himself that he's still there, that he can't stay away even if he'll end up hurting more in the long run, increasing - Ross draws away - caused once again by the same love, not wanting to be hurt any further by pulling away. 

So Trott settles by Smith's side, and Ross drifts, chores piling up in endless excuses; the mess of three twenty-odd year olds living haphazardly together having surely never been more appreciated. But by ten, the kitchen and front room are spotless, clean. Made sterile, and it's unnerving, makes Smith's stomach roll. Ross blanches too, stricken. It looks like they'd never moved in, or at least, not them. Other people. Cleaner, older, with more responsibilities. Not them.

Silence between them abounds, grows choking and twined between them, even while the television flickers on. Ross keeps his vigil, and Trott becomes more possessive, clingy, encroaching on Smith's space and tangling his limbs around him. Things that need to be spoken make the air heavy, surprisingly intense, given that this aspect of their relationship only truly began, what, five days ago? But then, what has the whole thing of working - then living - together been, but a three year courtship they were never aware of?

Ross sighs, tipping his head down and pinching his nose, eyes screwed shut. Probably beating himself up for something he has no control over, Smith muses. It's a thing they all seem to do. The shadows cast by their little lamp's weak reach sets darkness deep over his eyes, his cheekbones, his neck. Trott reaches over Smith to grab the remote from where it had been next to where the dark haired man was sat, switches it off, then idly chucks it back to its previous placement.

He feels Trott's breath on his cheek, while at the same time he watches Ross zero in on the brunet's move closer to Smith. He turns to the shorter man, notes the closeness of their faces, flushing as he realises how little he'd have to move to just kiss the other man. His eyes jerk upwards from the other man's lips, which are now slightly curled in amusement, but it fades quickly, seriousness once again overtaking the man's face. Smith is very much aware of the fact that he has no real idea what their relationship is. Love? How could it not be love. They all already must know that. The involuntary touches, even hugging, is fine. But it could be a platonic love? Romantic love? Sexual? He's not sure whether they should kiss. He'd like to, though. Right now. Not even as a precursor to sex. Just to show his affection. Endearment. To touch and be touched, and it be purely innocent.

He's never felt secure enough to ask for that. Doesn't even know if he needs to, though. Trott lifts up his musician's hand, brushes back Smith's fringe like he might be constituted of glass. And he might as well be, this instant. If what he feels isn't wanted by the other man, both the other men, then his heart might as well calcify and crack, even before Sunday.

And then Trott leans barely forward, chastely presses his lips to the auburn haired man's as he continues stroking the taller man's hair soothingly. Smith feels he could cry, and his sternum aches as his heart swells beneath it. It's almost painful, this joy. Dear god, has he ever felt this happy? Not for the kiss - though he likes it a lot - but for what it represents. 

Smith opens his eyes, not registering having closed them, and sees Trott's - so much fondness there, it's heart-wrenching - and when he looks to Ross, stood in the shadows, arms locked over his chest even now, to protect his heart, the man is smiling. His eyes are shining with something like pride. He meets Smith's, gestures to continue, as Ross stands and is their sentinel. Trott kisses him again, light, undemanding, coloured not by ardour. He keeps stroking Smith's hair, or holding his hands. 

After a while, Trott shifts, and with a pang, the auburn haired man realises the brunet doesn't want to kiss anymore. But he's wrong. The demon merely rearranges himself to be sat on Smith's lap. But somehow it's still clear there's no sexual motivation behind it. Trott unbuttons his shirt slowly - not so slow it's a tease, but not fast enough to be driven by desire - it's more with a level calmness - and shucks it from his shoulders, somehow his wings not interfering, and gathers it neatly to put it near the remote. Then, he pulls at the hem of Smith's tee, as if asking permission, and curious, Smith raises his arms in acquiescence - the lack of fervour reassuring him Trott's not going to bite and lave at his chest in preparation for more. Not that Smith'd mind that. He'd just prefer more calm touches and contact, at this moment in time. He thinks being skin-to-skin might be quite nice for a bit more kissing.

And then his tee's off, and with the coolness of the room's air rushing to touch his skin, the ice water realisation of them seeing the severity of the silvering on his chest crashes into him like an ocean wave. Oh no. Shit shit shit! The panic must be like fire in his eyes. He grabs for his tee again, to cover himself, but warm hands close gently around his wrists, strength undeniable, and he hastens to look Trott in the eyes. He sees only sadness there, as they study his skin laced with its fine silver filigree. The demon raises a finger slowly, to trace a crescent around his left nipple, over his heart, where the fine spindly ends of the lines now lie, their target obvious. Smith flinches, realising that they've moved an obvious distance even in the space of a day.

"Look, they're almost at you heart, now." Trott says it with a quiet, subdued voice, not really to Smith, not really to Ross. Just as an observation to himself. And then he lifts his left hand to press his fire-warmed palm to Smith's cheek, smiling fondly even as the corners of his eyes belie his sadness, his pity. Smith glances at Ross, sees the same sad smile on his face.

And then Trott suddenly lurches forwards to fully embrace Smith, arms almost painfully tight around his chest, and his face buried into the crook of the taller man's neck, kissing him over and over with light touches, as his wings create a stained glass enclosure of the richest wine.

When they go to bed, holding hands the whole time, it's with a sobriety that makes Smith's heart seize.


	13. I'm changing my name just as the sun goes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the big one. And it really is the big one; it's 7.3K, this chapter. Please enjoy. My stuff's not betaed, so mistakes are mine. Sorry.
> 
> I will just say that this chapter... is a bit of a mindfuck, if you'll pardon my language. And I'd say this chapter specifically is NSFW, given the language/body horror/sexual (not explicit though) elements involved. Just a heads up.
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to Morty, without whom I would not have an AO3 account, and Roehr, with whom I learnt to sit back and enjoy the angst. Thank you.
> 
> And you may notice this is part of a series. I've really enjoyed this AU, and I really want to write more in it. :3
> 
> TL;DR: Here you go and there will be more.

Once again, Smith wakes surrounded by the two people he most loves. Both Trott and Ross are tangled across him. He's lay on his back, totally at the mercy of either of them. And he should feel safe, would feel safe, if he weren't hyper aware that it's Saturday, and oblivion comes tomorrow.

He should barely be able to see - the lack of light in the room should leave him blind - but of course, the backhanded compliment of sharpened sight that the city has lent, affords him unmarred vision, even in the pre-dawn dark. Smith scrabbles for sleep, even knowing full-well he's beyond its limits once again, fully aware. He's left to stare up at the ceiling, with only his thoughts, his worried mind, for company.

The other two men slumber on, close and warm, and though it should be a comfort to Smith, should carry him off to the realms of slumber once more, it instead makes him overheated and restless. He wants to move, or roll over, or sit up, maybe get a glass of water. But he can't. He can't wake the other two. Can't force them to be aware and to worry for longer than necessary.

Even though Smith's wide awake, he's tired. There's a pressure at his temples, unmoving, and only exacerbated by the smothering warmth. His eyes are heavy, gritty, burning - though not as he keeps them open - but when he shuts them, when he tries to get some form of rest. Usually, Smith would grab his phone and put in earphones, and listen to his music in an effort to push himself into some form of rest. But he can't. And he's thinking too much.

If yesterday was bad - knowing that in two days, he wouldn't be with his friends any longer - then today is worse. Everything he has left that he wants to do - in reason - he has to do today. The entirety of tomorrow will be taken up with freaking out and scaring them with his behaviour. He's put on this front for too long already. Oh Christ.

Look at him. What a fucking prick. What a fucking idiot.

All that time he could've been with Trott - and maybe even Ross too - and he fucking wasted it all! 

Smith keeps his eyes fixed on a singular point on the ceiling as hopeless anger fills him. His eyes start burning and his vision blurs with tears. His throat hurts, he can't swallow, and he digs as deep as possible as he suppresses the urge to kick a leg out at the covers, so as not to disturb, to pull out of their naïve state, his loves. His face contorts in a grimace as he inflicts as many insults and criticisms and hatreds as he can summon, varied and agonising and absolutely as bitter as he can make them, upon himself.

And maybe, maybe, Smith has hated himself, all along. Perhaps he's just been able to fool himself with his prime arrogance. Because at this stage, he can't think of a worse person than he.

Sure, there have been, murderers, rapists, stalkers. But who else has pursued not just one, but two relationships, after finding out he's fucking going to die? What kind of shitty person does that?

Smith feels the sticky path that tears are tracking down his cheeks, takes pleasure in his own discomfort. God knows it's the least of the punishments he deserves. He digs his nails into the meat of his palms instead, smiling horrifically, even as his eyes blur with moisture again - though not from the physical pain, oh no - just from the negativity he keeps pulling back in a shroud over himself. It hits him at his sternum with a pressure that awes him.

But he keeps grinning up at the ceiling, even as tears fall. How pathetic he is. Crying, instead of figuring out how to get out of this. He has over a day, yet he's not leaping at the chance to prolong his life, to extend the time he spends with the people that mean the most to him. He doesn't deserve to spend any amount of time with these people. Selfish bastard that he is, coasting along and letting them try to solve his problems for him.

Smith notes the hitching of his breathing with a dispassionate return to the present, to sensation, and works on forcing the gulps down and taking in normal draughts, even when he wants to suck in as much oxygen as he can. Eventually, he's breathing normally again. He feels the worsened force at the sides of his skull, where tiredness and dehydration are now compounding to increase his misery. The auburn haired man waits, and feels the crusting of salt on his cheeks develop as time oozes by.

Impatience nagging at him, the taller man painstakingly lifts his upper body in order to look past Ross's shoulder, and across at the clock. The effort of raising himself slowly, in almost a semi sit-up, so as not to disturb his partners, makes his abdomen ache and his muscles tremble.

Finally he sees the twitching hands on the moon-round face, and God fucking damn it, how is it only four twenty-three? He drops slowly back down, waiting until he's settled before he slowly lets the air out of his lungs. He tips his head back, and makes himself vulnerable. He kind of wishes that Trott really had asphyxiated him that day. He thinks he could be happy, staring into those eyes and intoxicated by beauty. Lulled to his death. Like a sailor, serenaded by a siren. It would suck way less than whatever's waiting for him tomorrow.

And really, wasn't it Trott almost - but not quite - killing him, that made him go out that night, that made him walk through those fetid rain-slicked streets and ultimately to the Ley lines? To the city? To his death. Fuck, no. He can't blame Trott for that. He can't sink that low. 

He feels a huffed exhale on his cheek, a small murmur as Trott draws closer, the constriction of arms around him, and something wrapping tight around his leg. Trott's tail, it must be. If he could reach down, he could grab the bladed barb, and then... And then what? Kill himself. He can't even bring himself to seriously consider that. The pain would be... Well. Too much. He could never pull through with that. And Trott wouldn't let him. Not ever.

The demon would wake up and shout and curse, but never that. Never let himself be an instrument in Smith's demise. He supposes the brunet's already shouldering guilt enough for Smith storming out that evening. 

He presses his lips together in dissatisfaction at his predicament. At their predicament, really.

Shit.

The taller man falls into mulling over idle thoughts and running his gaze over the lines of the room as they become more and more emphasised by the early pastel light of the coming day. 

Smith frowns in sudden, idle thought. Judging from the already bright ray beaming through the slit between the curtains, and illuminating cascading gold-gilt motes, it's going to be a beautiful day.

\---

Smith somehow loses himself in a haze of not-quite sleep, and tortuous thoughts, which all intertwine. He would almost say it's like dreaming, but he's been aware the whole time, though the hours seem to have become both kinder and more cruel, slipping by an awful lot quicker than he expected.

By now, his visage has returned to normal; the puffiness and red spidering of his eyes had reduced, then vanished, a couple hours ago.

To his left, Ross draws in a breath, heavier and deeper than any of the preceding ones, and the auburn haired man rolls his head, to watch the dark haired man wake up. A wobbly but genuine smile grows on his face as he watches the other man blearily blink awake.

"Hey." He says it a softly as he can manage, still aware of the conked-out demon sprawled to his right like a massive house cat. 

Ross scrunches up his eyes in reply, grimacing at the light invading the room where the curtains weren't properly drawn the evening before. Smith knows he's staring at the man, and keeps staring, feeling sadness well below his sternum. He doesn't want to lose Ross. Not when he's only just got him. His smile falters, before falling completely.

Still squinting slightly, the dark haired man tries attempts a small smile, but it's just a twitch to his lips; it's gone in a heartbeat. Smith's heart shrinks, just a little.

He can't look away, though. And, in a fit of stupidity, Smith realises he wants to kiss Ross. Not chastely. Deeply. All encompassing. It's selfish and arrogant and terrible of him. The more he thinks about it, the more urgent it is. He wants to hold and be held, to stake his claim and be claimed. It's stupid and irresponsible, but with the stress of the situation, he just wants release, an escape from the awful future headed ever closer. 

Ross hasn't looked away yet, either. Realisation dawns slowly, beginning with a furrowing of his dark brows, so Smith lunges forward to stop the thoughts as quick as he can. It's not a gentle kiss. It's urgent and pathetic in its motivations. Selfish. So selfish. He's treating Ross like he's a quick lay, something to get off to swiftly. It's like he's a teenager making out in some bathroom. No finesse, just force.

He's ruined their first kiss. He's ruined what should have been a tender realisation between them, slow and careful: loving. But the worst part is, it's working. His fears are hazy, lust overtaking him. Ross's eyes are closed and he's moaning under his breath. Lord knows he's just as affected by their interaction.

He makes an executive decision, and scrabbles with a careless hand for the hinge of Ross's knee, hiking it up over his hip and pressing forwards, plastering himself to the other man. 

There's a sound from behind him. Trott, rousing himself. He doesn't glance backwards, instead dipping his head to the crook of the dark haired man's neck, and sucking at the juncture there, enjoying the garbled expletives this prompts. 

And then the warmth behind him is gone. Smith can't but shiver as he's left cold. The mattress heaves as Trott practically leaps off the bed, and away from them. "Oh god, Alex, not now." The brunet sounds distressed, forlorn. There are fast thudding steps, and the demon is gone, the door creaking as it's pushed by the eddies of his passage.

Smith stalls in his ministrations, hurt, even though he should have considered that the brunet would disapprove of his choices. This is all the window the other man needs to pull his fractured thoughts into a somewhat cohesive whole, eyes still glassy with want, and to pull away from the auburn haired man. Smith tries to reach in again, to kiss again, but a palm meets his chest and pushes him back, and onto the bed. He doesn't fight it, wounded, something twingeing in his chest.

"Trott's right, this is the wrong thing to do. Not now." Ross scrambles to clamber from the bed, breath's still hitching, and backs away, apologising profusely. But Smith says it's fine.

And it is. Of course it is.

He's abruptly left supine on his back after both men have fled the room, self-pity and loathing bubbling up in his chest. His throat contracts, almost painful as he tries to swallow around the stiffened muscles. He wants to cry again. 

Instead, he stays still, glaring up at the ceiling, calling damnations upon himself, his stupidity, and whatever entity might have plotted his life's course. He doesn't do anything to further his pleasure, to take himself over that edge. He can't. He'd almost certainly think of them. And how would they feel about that? To have their wishes ignored. It would be wrong. And they'd know if he'd done it.

Smith decides a cold shower is called for. It's a cursory wash; he barely pays himself any attention, instead willing away his arousal and agonising over the multitude of stupid decisions he's made in the space of the last week. Jesus, what a bastard he is. When he steps out of the glass enclosure, he avoids looking at the pseudo-abstract scrawl emblazoned across his chest. It makes him feels sick to even think about. Instead, he considers how he'll act when he goes downstairs.

Will he apologise? Ignore what he just did? Fuck it. He's too tired to consider every permutation of his situation, as he'd most likely do. He's done too much thinking already. He dresses casually, but with a long-sleeved tee. Runs his fingers through his hair to try to give it some order. Stares dispassionately at his reflection. Done.

Now to face the two downstairs.

\---

His steps are heavy, malcontented, and it's clear his frustration will be emanating from his every mannerism. He stomps into the kitchen, and clatters through cupboards to reach for the requisite crockery. He slams a plate and mug down onto the counter, drums his fingers irritably as the kettle shows supreme reluctance to come to boil. He leans with his palms curled on the edge to the worktop, braced on extended arms and with his shoulders hunched to his ears. Ross is notably absent from his usual post, instead sat at their small kitchen table with Trott, both cradling steaming mugs.

Smith hasn't met their eyes yet. He keeps his head tipped down, searching the faux-marble plastic layer of the counter for clues, tracing striae through it's structure where the cold, clear light from outside streams in. Just as he thought. A beautiful day. The sky's bright, a pastel blue that would really compliment Ross's eyes, and wispy clouds frost the sky like icing sugar, pure and clean. The grass's shade is blued by ice where the sun hasn't quite reached past the shadows left by both the fence and the copse behind it, and where the day has breathed its warmth, fresh blades are adorned with prismatic beads.

The light is golden, streaming. Gorgeous really. Occasionally, he's heard Ross and Trott talk about the golden hour. Or as they usually refer to it, the magic hour. He guesses that as they're film students, old habits die hard. He doesn't miss the subsiding of his foul mood as he considers them. Shit. He's fucking shit at holding grudges - not that there's even a grudge to be held here. He hates the irrationality that stems from emotions; but then, he supposes, everyone feels the same way.

Distantly, the kettle clicks, announcing the completion of its task, and the auburn haired man tips his head to watch the liquid bouncing through the gauge, until it settles. He squints through the brilliant light hitting his eyes from the source's low position in the bleached sky. When the low rumbling has diminished, he reaches for the kettle, pouring the liquid into his mug, watching the teabag rise while the water darkens. Once again, he's falling back on the old comfort of tea. He walks to the fridge to fetch milk, absently noting that he's really not that hungry. Once the two litre bottle is returned, he stirs the beverage with idle twists to his wrist, then fishes out the used teabag.

Perfect. He returns the unnecessary plate to the cupboard, and carefully lifts the mug to his lips, gingerly tipping. Heat rolls down his gullet. Soothing and warm. He closes his eyes, a futile effort against the blazing light from outside, and breathes in, wondering about the crispness of the air outside, how the juxtaposition of the chill in his nose and the warmth in his throat would be.

He turns to walk towards the patio door, which requires him to walk towards the table his friends are sat to, observing him with worried eyes. He pays this no heed - not to be rude or awkward, no, not at all - he just can't bring himself to see them look at him with any more pity than they already have. There's a reassuring clunk as he turns the knob to unlock the door, then pushes down on the handle. The metal is cool to the touch as he pulls the door open just as much as he needs, and he shivers inadvertently when he slips carefully into the biting air. His breath coils in cloudy streams across his face, and he pulls the door shut behind him with a gentle smile.

He lowers himself to sit on the yellow-paved step, an intermediary between their house and the garden proper. The stone is cool even through the seat of his jeans. But it's calm; there's no movement in the air. Propping his elbows on his spread knees, he clasps the warm mug between his palms. Relaxes. Even in the midst of everything, and he's calm. The hell? He drops his head near to his chest, and shakes it slowly in disbelief. Perhaps he got his existential crisis over and done with in the small hours of the morning, then.

He pulls a deep breath in through his nose, even as the cold makes him flinch. He... loves that smell. Of the cold. Sharp, and tangible. Difficult to grasp, let alone explain. It reminds him of walking through snow on the way back from school, holidays brought early by unexpected weather. Of snowball fights, of shopping with his dad in the early hours of Christmas Eve to beat the rush for supplies. And of the day itself.

It's calming, all the while exciting. He notes his heartbeat has quickened, a charming foible of the olfactory system's link with memories. Humming, he dips his head to smell his tea, and again he's sat on the back doorstep as a child with tea between his hands.

He smiles, tips the liquid down his throat, enjoying the lingering heat it causes in his throat and core. 

When his fingers start numbing, colour finally draining, he tips the last of his drink back, and stands. He's about to walk back through the door, hand resting on the handle, when he realises.

He didn't feel it. The slip of thresholds as he exited the house. He frowns, confused. He's tempted to believe that Ross or Trott - maybe both, he still doesn't know who put it in place - cast the spell over their garden too, but he's sure that's not possible. Common sense dictates the space needs to be fully sealed to work. Weird. 

He shakes the thoughts from his mind and goes back inside, locking the door after him. Trott and Ross aren't there. He looks to the clock on the wall. Ah. He's been outside a good forty minutes. Wow. That went fast.

He steps over to the sink, placing his mug down with a lot more care than he did earlier, and leaves the kitchen to look for his friends.

\---

He finds them in the living room, practically unmoving, but next to one another, hands clasped and knuckles white. Trott's kicking his legs in a steady rhythm against the sofa. Da-dum, da-dum, one-two, one-two. It's slightly maddening, Smith thinks. If he were sat where Ross is, he would've asked him to stop ages ago.

But he's not sat where Ross is. He turned them away. Well, technically, they did, but emotionally, he supposes, he did. Shit. The demon's gaze could be burning a hole in the far wall. The darkest haired man's instead, is skipping around the room, over and over. Cataloging, Smith supposes.

It's only fair that they would move away when he's gone. Why would they stay - surely his actions this morning have ruined the place for them anyway. Maybe even whatever relationship the two might've had in the future. Fuck.

He needs to make some kind of amends, though. Or apologise at the very least. He pokes his head past the door, aiming for exaggerated, comical. God knows they need some fucking levity today. He knocks against the door, smile faltering when they both turn to look at him with baleful gloom. He fights to keep a light expression. He's answered with slight curls to pressure-thinned lips. Better than nothing.

"Um, guys, look, I'm really-." He's cut off by a low rumble from Trott, the man too drained to bother raising the tone of his voice with any enthusiasm.

"If you fucking say you're sorry, mate, I might actually deck you." He meets Trott's unflinching glare, feels pinned, and chastened, instead looks to Ross. He just looks miserable.

He sighs, unsure of what to do, just stays loitering uncomfortably in their periphery. At least the brunet's stopped kicking his legs now.

Finally, the shortest man sighs, shifting away from Ross, as the dark haired man gestures for Smith to join them. Smith hesitates, unsure, before exasperation stains the other man's features. "Just fucking come on, mate." There's a hint of wryness to the man's lips. Like he's being guided by strings, Smith walks stiltedly towards them, barely covering the stumbles that are resultant of him not knowing what to expect.

What he receives instead is the sudden press of bodies against his, arms warm as they reach around him. He can hear and feel their breathing where their heads are close to his. Smith barely stifles a sob. He hadn't realised this was exactly what he needs.

He doesn't say anything, for fear of emotion thickening his voice. He doesn't want that, and neither do they. It is by unspoken agreement that they remain in their little huddle, just feeling, holding. Nothing owed. It's not awkward at all, and this is what surprises the tallest man most of all. He was sure he'd broken some sort of promise between them, this morning. But no. There are absolutely no misgivings.

Smith had never realised how lucky he is.

\---

The rest of the day is spent as a near clone of the previous day; they're huddled as they seek reassurance through familiarity and closeness. Smith takes to messing with Trott's tail, sometimes tracing his hand along the seamless scales and marvelling, other times running his nails over the barely-there edge of an individual garnet segment, and pulling back on it ever so slightly until the demon swipes it away with the wounded resignation of a cat, knowing the same is soon to happen again.

Smith thinks of all the things he wants to do, and realises that just spending time with these two men - his partners - eclipses all else. The television is churning out some stupid programme, a rerun most likely, judging from the tell-tale fuzziness of a standard definition picture. He'd probably still find I funny - it's a classic, probably - but Smith's paying it no attention, no heed.

There's a churning in his stomach. It's been building all day. It's like the nausea of waiting for results of something when you just know it's gone bad. He realises he's counting down until he has a day left.

The sun's wheeled around, light hitting the front of the house now. It still hangs low. But it looks cold outside; not just temperature, but the light. Clinical. Harsh. Even with the returning golden hour. It's void of the richness it possessed this morning. 

Smith stands to walk to the window, under the pretence of closing the blinds for warmth. It is, instead, to stop him being able to watch the molasses descent of the sun. Of course, even though it's slow at this second, his day has passed him by all too quick.

He realises he's been stood, captivated by the sun. He takes one last look, before closing the blinds and vehemently pulling the curtains shut. 

But goddamn, it's a beautiful day.

\---

It starts slowly. One moment Smith's very much present, and plastered between his friends. The next, he's sat in a ghostly replica of the apartment, sans noise, light, and the other men. There's no transition he can perceive, and like a dream, he can't tell when either reality begins. At least, he assumes the other places is a reality - everything was in the same place, looks the same, though translucent - almost ephemeral seeming - like it's carved of dust. Dark and wrought of shadow. The clock on the mantelpiece still ticks, though. Noiselessly. It's keeping pace with the real one.

He blinks, and there's another fade into the other realm - only, it's not really a fade - it's as though the colour and life that he's used to is a tablecloth that some cosmic waiter is pulling from the table that is his perception of the world, and if that doesn't sound stupid, he doesn't know what does. And then, he's back. Colour abounds.

Smith keeps his breathing even - the others have said nothing to him about any disappearance so far, so evidently, he remains with them somehow, in some way. He rubs at his right wrist unconsciously. It's cold through his jumper.

In fact, he's cold the entire way up his arm, across his chest. His heart aches with it. He breathes slowly, his teeth chattering. He's shivering too. He hadn't realised, but that other place is cold - so fucking cold. And the metal in him seems to retain it. It's seeping through him.

He scrabbles with urgency for the remote, ignoring Trott's complaints, unhearing, actually. He's rendered deaf by panic. He switches to the news, presses the red button, tries to find the weather report somewhere. He needs to know when sunset is. Shit. His hands are trembling with both cold and nerves. He has no co-ordination. He can't, he just can't get his digits to do what he wants.

He's almost able to press select, almost able to check the time for sunset. His heart twinges, then burns. It's cold, so cold he might die. He clutches at his chest desperately for relief, but there is none. His vision is again replaced by a luminous grey-scale. It wasn't meant to be today. Why is it happening today?!

And then he slips. He feels nauseated, like his stomach's crawling up his oesophagus, the sensation he gets falling from the brow of a roller-coaster. He's cold and alone, sat on a shadow replica of the sofa. Trott and Ross are gone. He's shivering immediately, breaths visible. The furniture of the room appears just as tremulous as the swirls of moisture. He could almost waft it away with a casual brush of his hand. 

And that would be bad. He doesn't want to be trapped here. He stands quickly, moving towards the window. The sound of his footsteps are strange, as though he can hear them in his head, though there is no sound. It's like his brain is trying to provide it for him, echoing and empty. The curtain has the weight of spiderwebs, though he can't feel its texture. All he can feel is a biting chill, working its way through his blood.

Beyond the window, is a view of the road. Much the same as before. Their apartment is the only one there, though. The rest of the land is flat, empty. Almost like a wasteland, and exposed. But pristine, perfect. No evidence of other habitations here. Absolutely nothing but the road.

The sun is a weak blue slice above the horizon, shimmering like he's seeing it through a mirage. Sometimes he sees it double, triple, and it ripples like it's a reflection on a puddle. There's nothing wonderful about it. It's cold and dead and offers no warmth. Stars dot the sky. Not beautiful. They're all of equal brightness, shape, shade, cold as his new sun. He can see them even with the sunset.

But they only reach so far through the dusky dome above him, a huge rending in the fabric of this space, and he sees it now, through the very walls and ceiling of his home. It's fading away like sand blown across the desert. His hair ruffles in an absence of wind. He feels like he's being observed by thousands of eyes. But there's nothing around him now. Just the dying sun and an abundance of stars. They're the watchers. Baleful and ambivalent towards his fate. They don't care.

His heart freezes again, and he doubles over to gasp soundlessly as he claws at his chest. There are no walls around him now. Only blackness and a road. When did he get to the road? He was just in the house, and now he's on tarmac - at least he assumes it's tarmac, it's dark and glistens like there's been a sudden deluge of rain. But there can't have been. On a second look, he realises it's more like congealed blood. Good god. He feels sick. Smith crumples his eyes shut, trying to push down the pain. It's so sharp and real. But he can't feel it.

The dark patch in the sky, irregularly shaped, beckons him. He feels a tug below his sternum, like the day he first found the Ley lines, pulling, straining so hard against his breastbone it might snap if he doesn't move. He stumbles in his rush to move. His blood is cold in his veins, and his heart is colder still.

He walks, though towards what, he doesn't know. He'd always assumed that Kim had somehow drawn him to her that night, but maybe this whole time it was just the city playing with him. Ground falls away, though with no markers to judge his progress by, he has no idea how long he has been walking for. It could be hours or seconds. He's exhausted though. The stars wheel, avoiding the lightless patch in the sky. It's so black, so empty. It seems to suck all the light from around it away. Stars that trail too close to it smudge before tapering and finally dissolving. When he looks to the right, he sees the sun looping an endless sunset, an endless golden hour, painting the world blue. Barely. It's so cold.

He keeps walking though. Any time he stops it hurt like he's being held under water, filling his lungs and chest and burning. His heart takes the brunt. How can he keep going? He just lurches, forces himself to keep going. It's got to end at some point.

The feeling of being watched increases. He's so vulnerable. He's the only thing here. The stars are so close he can touch them. He thinks he does. They trail trough his fingers, unfelt. They remain in their lofty vaulted ceiling lightyears away. They're impassive to his plight, just waiting for the end.

It will happen soon, he's sure. There's a river on his left. It mirrors the road's path identically. The road is perfectly straight and so is it. He doesn't know when it began. It's always been there, beside the road. He's been walking so long.

Who is he? If only he could stop, then he'd know. If he could just take a few minutes to get his breath back, then he could sort through the intangible memories he might still have, and reach for the fragments he has left. The longer he walks, the less he knows.

The pulling at his sternum ceases. He looks up, and the darkness is directly above him. Its ragged shape seems to be like a gnarled hand, spreading to swallow the stars. It's pretty, he thinks. The way the stars are pulled apart. Their remains fizzle in small bursts before being swallowed whole. It reminds him of someone. A man being torn apart by something in him, but not of him. He was loved. It's a shame those people had to leave him. But he knows they did the best for that person. He smiles upwards, even as he feels a collective consciousness turn to him. 

The man tries to whistle. But he can't. He frowns. Why can't he whistle? Strange. What would he whistle, anyway. He doesn't know anything that he would whistle.

There's a chair. It's grand and towering and ostentatious. It's not quite like any chair he's ever seen. He wants to sit in it, though. Before he does anything else, he needs a rest. The man steps forward on jelly legs, the appendages shaking with exertion. Weird. He hadn't walked that far. He climbs into the seat. It's plush and comfortable, even though he can't feel it. He feels a shudder roll through him, and he closes his eyes against sudden pain. 

When he opens them, he's presiding over a world he recognises. It's still dark, but there's an overlay of where someone he knew used to live. He's been there once, or twice. He looks for the sun. There are so many versions of it now, overlapping. That's why it's brighter, then. The forced effort of many universes. The world he presides over blurs, the many iterations of every individual doing the same tasks but in slightly different ways each time. He can see copies of so many. 

Are they unique now? He's not sure. This is worrying, though he doesn't know why. He's sure they wouldn't like to know there are so many of themselves. They're not special. He adjusts in his seat. What is he sat on? There is no chair. He's floating. It's so beautiful. 

It's a beautiful day in every single one of those universes. It hurts his head and heart - he can barely understand it all. 

A thought bursts in a flash of colour and pain. A memory. One of Alex Smith's memories. Of terror and nausea. That man shouldn't be here. Not today. He was supposed to be here tomorrow. He emanates the feeling of betrayal. Why is Alex Smith here? It was agreed he'd be here tomorrow?

There's something behind him, around him, that rouses itself at his innocent question. Eldritch, massive, unknown. It struggles to rise from its deep slumber. He feels a curiousness, a questioning. It is unvoiced and uncaring. It rings in his head.

Why is Alex Smith here? Why was the promise broken? The questions make perfect sense to him.

Coldness flares in his veins as punishment. But he was only asking a valid question. He was placed as ruler here. He proved himself. He can't remember quite how, but he did. The colour ebbs away, pulled away from the surroundings. He's no longer trusted to see, he guesses. It hurts, runs gelidly through him.

The thing merely shows amusement at his naïvety. When did it even agree to those terms? It never did. It always gets what it wants.

That makes sense. When he runs through Alex Smith's recollection, he realises that a prophecy was given, but never by the city. Ah well. Poor Alex Smith will have to deal with it.

When the city feels his acceptance of the facts, it lets colours bleed back into his vision again. He can see every reality once more. He watches the dominos of actions play out, their every repercussion and conclusion in every realm. It's like a soap opera, playing out stupidly...

And who was that thought from. Alex Smith? Again? Why is he intruding on his work. He is the overseer. He can't miss anything.

Something is burning. Near the river. It's blazing hot, searing like Eta Carinae, and so many times more brilliant. Alex Smith knows it. Him. A creature from the void, and the demon still feels love.

He finds that difficult to believe. But Alex Smith's honesty hums so loud in his unhearing ears, it must be true. He can hear him whisper now. To trust the creature. But why? He's been entrusted with the fate of so many, how could he ever neglect his post with a clear conscience. Surely the guilt of leaving them unattended would ruin him. But Alex Smith worms away in his mind, tells him secrets and shows him the love he feels for the demon, and for the Diviner. 

He hadn't known you could love, let alone have enough love for two. Jealousy sparks beneath his sternum. He shouldn't listen to Alex Smith, but the words he speaks ignites in his mind, treacherous. He feels warmth again. Barely. But it's there.

The demon is slowly, painstakingly, moving closer. Scalding hot, even so far away as he is. Maybe he's just too cold, though. Alex Smith certainly thinks so. Beyond the swirling mess and distortion of layer upon layer, he can see a flame. It's tiny, but growing. He keeps watching it, as Alex Smith begs him to do so.

The city can't hear him, it seems. It's nice to have a secret. Honesty is exhausting.

The flame draws closer, painstakingly. He and Alex Smith watch aeons pass, their spirits' hands tangled. Maybe they're one and the same. They're not sure anymore. Eventually, the flames are close enough to take the shape of a man. 

He scalds their retinas, but it's so beautiful. He looks like an angel, wings thrown asunder and streaming flickering tongues. His body is ragged like a fierce wind is pushing him back. His eyes are black, almost like the void above, but so much more warm. He feels Alex Smith's love for the creature. He wishes he could feel that much. All he is is second-hand emotion. It chagrins him.

The envy burns.

As the demon draws closer, they can see him properly. He looks like crystallised fire, a transparent layer running over him like water, runes flickering across him. The flames are protected, and he knows who by. Alex Smith told him, you see. It was Ross. Ross did it. 

If he hadn't, the demon would be dashed by the darkness descending on him from above. They look up. Tendrils are reaching down, slowly, oh-so slowly. As close as the stars.

Trott's form is blurring. The closer he comes, the more Smith knows, remembers, tells him. He knows it all, now. He knows love, too.

It burns him from the inside out, thawing the ice lining his silvered veins.

Hanging in the air before him, the demon is like Apollo. He watches him smile shakily. Would recognise that smile anywhere. He smiles back in return. For some reason, Trott looks apologetic. Smith doesn't know why. 

And now the city knows. It must have felt his splintered self rejoin. It's angry, livid, and throws images filled with terror and fire and death and ruins.

Trott reaches out for him.

The city laughs, laughs so bitterly.

Smith leaps with as much strength as he can muster, all his effort thrown into one movement. He's caught by blistering arms.

The city screams. 

"I'm sorry, Smith." Why? Why is he sorry?

There's a noise, like a great deal of air displaced - like the wind - and suddenly everything's on fire, red and visceral and oh-so bright, cocooning him with insurmountable, unbearable heat. 

He knows this is as close to feeling fire in his veins as Trott must as he'll ever get. 

Smith feels like he's dying.

\---

In the midst of burning up, he's aware of a void created around them, smoke and embers in a whorl around him. 

A feeling of nothingness, between things.

\---

When Smith wakes, he's shrieking and writhing in pain, and Ross is clutching him to his chest, tears trailing down his cheeks. He's back in the world he knows, time having barely passed. They're near the river, looking through railings and collapsed on the ground. Ross is holding him back.

It's because Trott just materialised above the river, body flesh once more, and agony written on his face. And now he's falling, into the river. Smith feels like joining him, wants to.

He's burning from his heart to his wrist.

Ross won't let him go - Smith barely has the strength to fight, to struggle, really - and all he can do is watch as the lithe body of the brunet plummets, wings useless, catching the air like partially-furled sails in a storm. 

His breathing hitches, and he realises he's crying too. Ross is pale, so pale, and his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Nobody walking past them looks to them. Probably some of the dark haired man's magic.

He feels so lonely, even in the arms of a man he loves. After having that happen to him, nobody noticing them feels... wrong.

He takes a shuddering breath, and watches the surface for any sign. There is none.

He's reminded of Ross's story; the tale of how he and Trott met. The words echo in his head. "A man, who, from the looks of things, is half-dead himself from the water."

Ross knows. Ross has known for a while. And is resigned to the truth. That's why he's not fighting it.

Smith wrestles away from the other man's arms, feeling sick once again. His memories of that other place are dulled; he's glad, really. He doesn't want to know what happened. He thinks it might come to him in dreams.

He braces his arms against the railings, head tilted down, breathing, just breathing.

He looks to his arm. There's still a little bit of silver there, but only weaving an inch or two from the base of his wrist. It still feels cold, colder than he remembers, but he can live with it. He can still see the Ley lines. They seem cagey, drawing away from him. Somehow, he's bested the city.

The sun is down fully, evening unfolding. The heavens he remembers are affixed back in place once again, differing stars and constellations twinkling. The moon is round and pure. There is no chasm in the sky. And there is no sign of Trott.

They stand side by side for a long while. Just watching. They're resigned to the truth, though. He swears he sees something, a movement on the far side of the river. Two figures, though, one shorter than the other. He doesn't want to voice this to Ross. It was probably a couple going for an illicit swim. Who'd want to swim in there, though. He wrinkles his nose in distaste.

Eventually, he notices that Ross is shivering. He seems to be unaffected. Probably the side effect of spending so long where he did. His head hurts so bad. Fucking hell. He's only just noticed. He feels numb.

Smith holds his hand out to the other man. He's sure they must look like a couple, just walking. Ross smiles at him, a tiny quirk to his lips. Just barely there.

When they reach their home, they sit curled into one another on the sofa, hoping against the odds. Praying, though to whom, or what, they have no idea. They've never been religious.

They can't bear returning to Ross's room, where they slumbered previously.

It seems a lifetime ago he made that mistake.

But he's alive. Shouldn't be be glad?

They fall asleep on the sofa instead.

\---

It happens like this. 

Smith dreams every night for a week, of strange celestial happenings on a cold blue plain. Of an unspoken voice and a fire that hurts and heals. And he wakes. Every day he recovers more. The dreams are vivid but slip from his consciousness like butter from a hot pan.

And a week later, Kim arrives. She's wearing purple. Her lips match her skin. There's a light mist of droplets cascading around her, leaving her with a spectral halo.

She grips their hands, smiles, beams, really. Pulls each of them down to kiss them on the cheeks.

"I wanted to do something worthwhile with my life. And I have."

\---

Thank you so much to everyone who's read this, followed this, given it kudos, or commented on it. You are the ones who made this happen. I hope you've enjoyed it.

Siera. X


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